Mr. and Mrs. à la Lorina

I Miss Tutsan Tormentil blame the bellowing below:

Mr. Midwife Pulls the Trigger

Put your ear to my
abdomen. From there you’ll pick
out bloody poems.

Parrot an art, cruel
romantic. With your knock-off
Dylan Thomas voice

and too tight jeans you
say my body back to me
casually. Recite

your lists of this strange
trauma not yours. I hear a
violence and re-wound

you put into fine form
and with a post-modern glint
elegise my rape.


Mrs. Holds-the-Reins

How you pursed your lips,
held your nose high in the air,
smiled with a shark’s sense

of censorship, put
good table manners (elbows
off) before people,

before love – always
obligation was your watch-
word, Victorian

matron version of
Tony Blair circa ninety-
seven. Argentine

exile raised by nuns,
your hauteur was an act of
terror. I lay at

your smartly-shod feet
all my prudery, things the
Man hates and loves in

we. Saddle me up
and fit the muzzle tight, I’ll
live your legacy.