The Diary

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 this diary.

His is filled with convolutions on a theme he shares with her and me. No one
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 children
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 companion.
She wanted no part of it. I cannot blame her. But it is why I have only this diary.

I consider this woman. I consider her children. The force of my passion is potent.
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 diary.

Had my mother not interfered, my friend and I might now be together. Our Siegfried
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.