Against "The Dover Bitch"
        —after Anthony Hecht

Once I read a fairly good translation of Hesiod
and this girl who was me slithered along the spine,
deferential to the men who keep the poetry.
As my daddy said, I've cussed between the lines.
You musn't judge me for that. I've many heads.
I speak to suit the rooms they move in.
Xenic breath. In each a brain, running to fat.
Though I respect a man's regarded work,
Shakespearean allusions, American
remembrances of a horrible war, when you show me
a good time, you only make me smarter.
I do recall that day on shore, your basket of beer
and French perfume, how you pinched
my waist and laughed, your wife none the wiser.
I feel you on my neck, my many necks.
You double-occupy me: the cliffs of Dover
at my back, the mighty empire fallen, and me a girl—
my heady, flicking tongue, overly sweet, my dependable anger
your oyster. Once at a dive, I watched an old man run
his hands over the belly of a beautiful woman,
pregnant the fifth time, then admire her heels
as she clicked away, no choice but to let him touch her.
I'm really all right. I smell with my mouth.
Lilacs, bread, a grandpa's musty breath. I know,
I know, you're angry. You also took me to be yours.

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Copyright © 2022 Jenny Molberg All rights reserved
from Birmingham Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission