A book is a mirror:

if an ape looks into it

an apostle is hardly likely to look out.

–George Christoph Lichtenberg

BITTER WOMEN:     on Men

Mamma and my aunt sit chatting in the kitchen

–a stick of furniture, I am invisible and mute–

they discuss my prospects for success with men

and how, subsequently, to make something of my life

Outside the window, sweetpeas

curl up the strings in the garden. Up to my elbows

in soapsuds and hot water,

I watch Uncle Junior’s dog, Duke, lay down in the cool,

right on the roots of the Sweetpea vines.

I face–at last–my nature as being, well, unsuitable for wedded bliss.

Its because I don’t like dogs.

Duke lies around all day, unaware that he sprawls

in a precious spot and may uproot the vines;

he won’t come when he’s called or in the same room,

but can hear from a half-block away food stirred up in the kitchen.

He dumps the garbage bin, playfully rolls in it, reeks of it

then looks dumb and adorable at the same time.

When I want to be alone, Duke wants to play.

When I want to sleep, Duke wants to play.

He drinks from the toilet, then growls when I

shoo him off a lovely chintz chair.

Duke will sit in the road or the middle of the living room,

do grisly things with his mouth, then

try to give me a kiss.

Dogs are tiny little suitors in fur coats.

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