Denise Duhamel & Maureen Seaton


LITTLE WOMEN

Every time Jo dreamed she was a man she
woke up ready to spit out a novel. Meg
worried about the neighbors, then begged
little Amy to take off that boa
and get down to brass tacks, but Amy saw
chores as painful. Amy was a real brat
who crapped on the stoops of the poor, whose fat
little hands stole fudge. Of course, she married well,
all those blond curls begging formidable
hats, little white hands snug in calfskin gloves.
Still, it was fun with no men around, no one
to wet the outhouse seat with urine.
Some people thought Jo was a lesbian.
Professor Baer notwithstanding, she could have been!

 

 

 

MADAME BOVARY 3

At thirteen Emma'd considered betrothal
to Christ, her first husband in shining armor.
Things were easier back in the convent—
no guys, for one thing, to meet in hotels
or hot tubs. "O God, O God, why [the hell]
did I get married?"—her first spoken words
after she noticed Charles' nose hairs, absurd
nostril stubble that made her hate all men,
even sexy ones who spoke with Parisian
accents and believed in winsome mistresses.
O oaf! O darling! O klutz! O business
of Harlequin romance. Hippolyte,
sweet amputee, martyr to Emma's bright
sins and Charles' dull ones, this poem is for you.