Poems by Pamela Moore Dionne
Out walking today I met Fraulein Aptekmann. She was one of my friend's
Now she is in love with him. All buttercups and bluebells, she transcends
We are two among the many. It's tedious to be so stupidly young – mosquitos
drawn to the fluid of his genius. We become colleagues after we
bend as patients.
Blessed is the one who can believe. She is to see him tomorrow
evening at six.
I will see him in the morning. This is the mire into which we descend
– his patients.
I didn't tell her I was meeting him. My stomach clenched with pity – not
for her –
for myself. She was a kindled luminaria, I the shrew who pretends patience.
Their excuse is the same familiar I lived with for years. Mentor for girls
round as Cornish hens, he supervises her thesis. She has graduated to
I used to go to him at six – sometimes dragging my umbrella with its broken
Sometimes waltzing over pavement – loved more than all the ascended patients.
It will be very cozy, she said, gloved hands pressed together
against the velvet yoke
of her gown. My own hands a contained slap – I played content, patient.
Once, when my friend abandoned me, when he sent a letter to my
parents saying they
should pay for his treatment of me, I wrote to Freud. Cruelty distends
The rape of the Sabines was no work of fiction. Women live their lives
the property of power. Being female is the enemy of my friend's