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I was sick of being a woman sick of the pain

I was sick of being a woman
sick of the pain
the irrelevant detail of sex
my own concavity
uselessly hungering
and emptier whenever it was filled
and filled finally
by its own emptiness
seeking the garden of solitude
instead of men.
The white bed
in the green garden
I looked forward
to sleeping alone
the way some long
for a lover.
Even when you arrived
I tried to beat you
away with my sadness
my cynical seductions
and my trick of
turning a slave
into a master.
And all because
you made
my fingertips ache
and my eyes cross
in passion
that did not know its own name.
Bear beast lover
of the book of my body
you turned my pages
and discovered
what was there
to be written
on the other side.
And now
I am blank
for you
a tabula rasa
ready to be printed
with letters
in an undiscovered language
by the great press
of our love..

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by:- admin posted in:- erica jong

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