The Frowning Beast

Amy Lawless
September 3, 2014
Amy Lawless

A man convinced some women of his need to be taken care of, for he thought his genius was too significant for certain of life’s details. Years were women. Each woman was smart and capable. He was neither. Each woman used her resources to help him to further his ambitions – putting her own second. Each woman woke up one day with wallet thinner and pussy emptier. Each woman showed him the door, a door that he saw as leading him to the fact of another woman. One day the man walked out of a door and instead of seeing a woman through it he saw a mirror and in the mirror was a frowning beast with white hair growing out of its nostrils, wearing a lovely shirt and vest, holding a suitcase with stickers displaying his wide travels. That’s not a woman, he seemed to say but did not—not out loud. He lit a candle and walked onward. There’s always somebody who can see the light around a shadow.


Amy Lawless is the author of two books of poems, most recently My Dead.