The Dr’s Dream Girl
He loved me ill
He loved me sick
He took My Hand
I took His Dick
It was Dr Blair
Who made Me Come
Oh that Hunter!
What a Bum
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He loved me ill
He loved me sick
He took My Hand
I took His Dick
It was Dr Blair
Who made Me Come
Oh that Hunter!
What a Bum
Two months ago
Eye wrote “The End of A Marriage”
How endless
as I saw him gaunt
guarding his door
against my onslaught:
“This has GOT to end”
He agreed.
He slammed The Book
on me
in the twilight of His Room
lit by one tranquillity candle
in blue-scented quiet
His Slam rang out
right next to me
Dear Jimbo:
Are you ever going to return my phone calls?
Are you still praying for me?
Well you don’t have to any more.
No thanks to you
and your drugs
and your illegal hospitalizations
Eye am back to making art
as proficiently as I was in art school
and you’ll never see it.
Sincerely
Your former “patient”
Joanna
Hey WHB — how come
you didn’t defend me
that time Eye was demonstrating
with a bread knife saying
“Eye could prove a point with this”
BECAUSE THERE WAS NO POINT —
why didn’t you tell Eliza
Eye was being your favourite type
of humour: “ironic”
instead you called the Mounties on me
and had me hauled away in an ambulance
to the psych ward —
how come you never defended me?
My soon-to-be-X
recently messaged
My Daughter Eliza
that he would like to see Me
“left twisting in the wind –”
well there’s a storm tonight
and Eye am here by My Self
cozy in My Bed
with The Power still on
Eye have been to bed
with My Dark Haired
sex kitten
who hides in Her Covers
comfortable, finally
showing me Her Clothes
sewed bye Her Careful Grandmother:
prom dresses in satin,
day dresses in pink knobbly knit
and her mother’s fall gown
of poppy floral design
photographed for a first wedding
to the first husband — father
of my hide-away friend
who has never been
a bride
My !3! Children
R as strong & beautiful
as the flock of Herons
EYE just witnessed landing
on the heights of My Scrub Spruce
horizon
Today would have been
My Brother’s 56th birthday —
he died at 45
innocent on a jail house floor —
My Beautiful Brother
conceived in Gabon
when Our Mother was ill
He was born during The Cuban Missile Crisis
and took that to Heart —
It coloured His outlook
of fear
though He was brave at six
when I threw His shiny red fire truck
down the cellar stairs —
He was brave at eleven
when I pushed Him off
the bow of Our Mother’s Molly
and He was brave at seventeen
when I told Him “No”
after he asked, “Don’t you love Me?”
He played the clarinet & saxophone
and made up stories about two clowns
named Jane Rane and Rank Raunk
while I pretended in a baby voice
He was “Uncle Howie”
and We played “Mail”
under the bathroom door
He followed Me like a shadow
jealous when I first married —
Our Mother had Howard give Me away
He built Me up with His Devotion
all the times I was ill after Our Mother died
and I slammed Him down
into the ground of Pine Grove Cemetary
in Shelburne, Nova Scotia
wailing on Our Father’s Shoulder
Note: The ghost of My Dear Brother haunts a part of My House — My Second Husband’s former Library where I installed a memorial to Howard with a painting of poppies the heavy frame of which warped the day I hung it there.
On My First Outing
with Dr Blair, after
showing him My Aquarium Mural
on the ceiling of the IWK* burn unit —
and going to Tim Horton’s —
Eye lay on the grass
of a Halifax park
to look into His Eyes of Blue:
“Do you think I am
The Second Coming of Christ?”
Eye hesitantly asked —
“No,” he said
“You’re a cheap date.”
*Isaac Walton Killam Children’s Hospital
Joanna Gilman Hyde 