All the men
I ever loved
were my own
creation.
Parts of someone
I took, leaving
out how they tried
to control, or took
liberties with touch
before I said yes.
Dispensing with the
shoes I didn’t like,
the wrong kind of jeans.
I took voices,
the touch of a hand,
a song they sang
a picture they painted
and left the nails
they didn’t keep,
the house in an uproar.
Their selfish plans,
neglectful intentions.
I could not factor in
the strange careers,
the alien familes.

My best love affairs
were the shortest,
a meeting or two.
Before my vision
got smeared like paint.
He came to me once
nearly whole
in my minds’s eye,
and I wrote him down
like a story,

His name was Peter
I always like two syllable
names best,
He was a sculptor –
though I might have
specified
“or something like one”
but I doubt I gave
much more leeway
than that.
I think I built his house

(no stanza break) while I was at, it was
in the country, of course.
a separate work space
so he was accessible
but not too under foot.
I ‘m pretty sure I put
in his daily work schedule
so it would be half compatible
with mine.
I don’t think I got much
into his history, but filled
in the dots around what he
meant to do with his life.

It was an afternoon’s
exercise and I have since
lost the notes,
They say if you vision
your ideal and marry him
within, he is with you
forever. And whether
he comes or not won’t
really matter. I can
see both the truth to
that and its limitations.
One woman said why then
it’s like having him on
your elbow, he’s with you
all the time.
Who ever wanted that?
I never thought one of those
stitched-together-at-the-hip
kind of loves was right
for me, always messing
with my freedom of motion.

I always figured if
I wanted my ideal man
I’d have to go out
in the back yard
and make him myself
out of mud and sticks.
As I have had to craft
my whole life by hand.
I like it like best like that,
but it is a slower way.

I wrote him down instead,
since that is what I do.
If he’s the sculptor
he should me making me.
I hope he gives me my

(stanza break) stronger body back,
my fighting weight.
Makes my legs just a little
longer while he’s at it.
Sophia’s facial structure
would be nice, but
the rest of what I’ve
got I’ll keep.
Oh hell, I’ll just
stay as I am.

I think I need to find
the notes, and get over
my problems with filing.
Lately I’ve been feeling
the need to have the lot
of the file cabinet pasted
on the wall like post-its,
so I know what is there
and can circle it, like
walking the perimeter
of your territory.
I’m sure Peter
is in there
somewhere.

11/6/99