Poems by Pamela Moore Dionne
My friend tells me Mother pouted prettily, lips rouged to ripe
fruit. He spurned her.
Mother says a man is Adam's spawn. A woman's wise to run before he's
My friend thinks a silk umbilical stitches my lids together.
I see Mother competes.
I am no Persephone nibbling at seeds. How many sighs before he turned
Mother's onyx hair is luxurious. Her eyes, blue black smoke.
I am a brown wren full of wit. Mother's skin inters her.
My intelligence is quick and varied – great, glorious beauty – my shining
Such a mind as mine is rare. My friend is drawn to brilliance.
He is inured to her.
Father says I have great purpose. He sees this in his dreams. Grandfather
sees it, too.
These men have convex eyes veiled with visions Mother thought referred
I am Sabina. One man's rare gem, two men's magical promise.
These are the ways I prove to Mother it is I who spurn her.