Poems by Pamela Moore Dionne
The golden Aryan. Siegfried, the child bridge. Mythical progeny. Our ideal.
We are Sieglinde and Siegmund, brother and sister transgressing marriage
– our onerous idol.
It was you convinced me Siegfried might be real. You tell me of the birth
The son she bore – not I. You beg me for love. Say now we need our idyll.
This Siegfried who is not Siegfried leaves you doubled over weeping
My pity. You who called the infant desire mine alone, find it your ideal.
You wanted the child to breathe as human, a physical being. I thought
sprung from our foreheads fully formed. Idealized love. Our idol.
What am I to do? In the myth Brünnhilde loves what Sieglinde loves – her
baby son. Tell me,
does your wife become me in your arms at night? Is this version your ideal?
Gunther tricked Brünnhilde into the marriage bed, as you trick us.
I am filled with Brünnhilde's fury, the knife in my hand. I carve her
Your bleeding is nothing compared to my raw womb. You have stolen Siegfried,
cast him somewhere between Purgatory and my white breast. New love is
One day I will name this thing that drives you. I will put my finger on
and know your need – hold it on my tongue like blood and speak it – your
I am corpse cold now. Dead to you. Sabina who loved perfection knows your
It is treacherous. You are the dream I create, my delusion. Conquest is