By Ruth E. Dominguez
I woke to find you as a woman of the hour,
abstractly raised to the new standard,
inflated as a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon –
the new pop song, rhythmical and cute,
the marshmallow in my boyfriend’s cereal,
the Andy Warhol subject –
trying to frame me in a Joni Mitchell song,
when really,
she was my friend before she was yours.
Your fair play is harmless like nursery school animal crackers
and draws blood like a stab in ultra-slow motion.
You measure my failure as if it were
the square-feet in your apartment;
evaluating me like a cheap ticket to the latest show.
You would maybe tell me one day
the subtle techniques you use in phallacio
that are so sugary and gooey,
your worship of the phallic
that is hidden in contracts
and subtle negotiations,
that waste my time
and send him
limping home
like a puppy hit by a truck,
the mental gymnastics that keep you entertained –
the with-her-tonight, the with-me-tonight,
the on-the-bottom or on-the-top?
The schoolgirl dream,
the older man.
And I would believe you and say
“Yes, you are a page in my life…”
and this would perhaps leave you wondering
whether you are happy.
*Author’s bio: Ruth E. Dominguez is a published author of nonfiction, short fiction and poetry. Her works have appeared in The Hub, Crossing Rivers in Twilight and The Common Line Project, among other publications. She has a B.A. in Latin American studies and performance and a M.A. in sociocultural anthropology. She currently works in education.
