Under the Clever Pseudonym Doe and Bitch, Dick and Jane Write an Instruction Manual for Hunters | Jill Crammond
Nothing is ever accounted for--
the years of calling me by the wrong name,
confusing me with your dog.
All the guts lay at my feet
like the bone
she never returned to you, even after
you threw it just past her head.
You say there was never a bone.
When we first married, I wore pearls
and an apron, even though gingham
made my hips look huge.
I offered to make dinner.
You told me don’t bother.
You told me you could do it better.
You’d think I wouldn’t mind being called a bitch.
Man’s best friend
the hunter’s prize possession,
leading him deep into the woods,
hot on the scent of a doe in rut.
Tell me when I should run for the ball,
tell me where to bury the bone.
Before the carcass rots in the sun,
tell me how again how to gut what has not been slit.
Nothing is ever accounted for--
the years of calling me by the wrong name,
confusing me with your dog.
All the guts lay at my feet
like the bone
she never returned to you, even after
you threw it just past her head.
You say there was never a bone.
When we first married, I wore pearls
and an apron, even though gingham
made my hips look huge.
I offered to make dinner.
You told me don’t bother.
You told me you could do it better.
You’d think I wouldn’t mind being called a bitch.
Man’s best friend
the hunter’s prize possession,
leading him deep into the woods,
hot on the scent of a doe in rut.
Tell me when I should run for the ball,
tell me where to bury the bone.
Before the carcass rots in the sun,
tell me how again how to gut what has not been slit.