Poems by Pamela Moore Dionne
I married Paul Scheftel two months after we met. He goes to temple as
trusted as Papa.
Pale hands hang from his sleeves, fingernails as seamed with ink-crust
My husband is a greasy sludge, a chancre. At tea this morning he struck
unprovoked. The flat of his hand is damp and cruel, unjust as Papa's.
We seldom speak. His eyes, bloodshot fever spots, peer from fleshy enclaves.
he is too ill to see patients. He lolls in his study, pretends his desk
He knows nothing of my poet, my friend. Even after months of marriage,
I cannot tell him. Jealousy is blood to him. His patience easily tested
Freud says I must bind to my husband. Forget Jung. Forget the dream of
I am pregnant. Food gags me. Paul is repulsive, his scowl disgusting as
Yesterday, Paul's mother refused to see him. I do not please her, though
She tells me I am not womanly; her condor eyes brow-crested as Papa's.
I work, teach, write. Paul's medical practice falters with his absence.
Creditors howl at our heels. He tells me he wants the same trust as Papa.
I am the same Sabina who once dreamt herself married. I was a child then.
Some marriages are narrow courtrooms where no husband is as just as Papa.