Before she slams the door, she yells out at me,
“Be a man!”
In anger, I briefly consider toppling my bookshelves over,
But do not force Gogol and Goncharov to fall into Borges and Cervantes.
I want to ask about the men who drink their families into bankruptcy,
The men who beat jealous bruises into their lovers,
The men enthralled in evil who assault children,
The men who remember nothing of war except the color of France’s soil.
I sit silently on my bed.
I wonder which she wishes me to be.
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