Poems by Pamela Moore Dionne
I refer to myself as damp poodle so often that I imagine the scent of
My inner genius labels me foolish at every turn. I fight. I am no one's
If I am anything, I am she-wolf. I saw that beast reflected in the mirror
My own eyes, glaring black ice, hunted and hungry. No thin dejected
I bring my friend my dissertation, hold it toward him in my left
hand. Stekel says left
represents incestuous desires. I pet his little boy, his daughter. Their
hair wet ocher.
I see his children often in the waiting room. They leave me weak – revolted
by my desire.
His wife gives him a second daughter. Another thing meant not to occur.
Siegfried, my baby son! A violin is playing downstairs, …and if ever
If ever. Love is simple instinct and death the can tied to the tail
of a jet cur.
I think of cyanide sometimes. Fear this endless terra incognita
between my friend's lips
and mine. He claims his marriage endures – an unwanted cur.
The Sabines spoke in tongues until the wolf king Romulus conquered them.
I have been captured, concubine to my friend's design, his intellect's