Poems by Pamela Moore Dionne
Only my wife has read it…and you. This said as he hands me his diary.
In my own journal, I take up where he leaves off. I write our love in
His is filled with convolutions on a theme he shares with her and me.
understands him as I do. He tells me this, but does not dare to write
it in his diary.
What does she think? This woman who shares his bed. Who bears him the
I long for. She and they are the bone and blood that flesh his diary.
My friend attempted to introduce me into his home – to make me his wife's
She wanted no part of it. I cannot blame her. But it is why I have only
I consider this woman. I consider her children. The force of my passion
My friend and I fell in love without noticing. An accident. I write
this in my diary.
How foolish to talk about it! Yet I cannot help myself. I have lost pure,
clean reason –
caught in the fingertips of this man. I have become a living page of his
Had my mother not interfered, my friend and I might now be together.
nearer to infant in my arms. I read these words, my hand among the pages
of this diary.
We have touched. We have kissed. We dream of the perfect son.
I, Sabina, embrace an icon and weep foolish love into his diary.