Men hate us.
We have, somehow, they think, rejected them.
They think, perhaps, we’re lesbian
(how that equates I cannot comprehend).
It’s true, we sleep with dogs instead of men –
we sleep with dogs because they are our friends.
They keep us warm at night, and mend
the holes that men have punched into our souls.
We sleep with dogs because we love the steady
comfort of their generous, undemanding strength;
they let us know when danger lurks
and threaten those who’d try to hurt us.
They wake to every morning with delight and
look us in the eyes with simple joy to be alive –
when they do they see us, who we are in truth
and not some fantasy, and that is fine with them –
they do not try to make us over in their image,
to plan or judge our days according to their whim.
Women who sleep with dogs have lots of reasons.
We may grow into crones and watch our flowers
wither with our seasons, but we’ll hold out
and save our beds until we find a man, the one,
that rare and precious man who makes us happier