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 ruined her.

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 her?

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 crown.
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 to her.

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.