A Question Mark
There is a hinge
of bone
where your chin joins
your cheek.
I like to stroke it
in the flicker
of a local movie;
I like to take
your laborer;s hand
when you are
cautiously-
(O proof of love!)-
driving my car.
You bring me gifts
of food;
I write you
poems of blood.
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poem by Erica Jong
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You Whom I Hoped to Reach by Writing
You whom I hoped to reach by writing,
you beyond the multicolored tangle
of telephone wires,
you with your white paper soul
trampled in transit,
you with kaleidoscope stamps
& black cancellations,
you who put your finger on my heart as I slept,
you whom I jostle in elevators,
you whom I stare at in subways,
you shopping for love in department stores. . .
I write to you
& someone else answers:
the man who hates his wife
& wants to meet me,
the girl who mistakes me for mother. . .
My strange vocation
is to be paid for my nightmares.
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poem by Erica Jong
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Going to School in Bed
If it is impossible to promise
absolute fidelity,
this is because
we learn so much geography
from the shifting of one body
on another.
If it is impossible to promise
absolute fidelity,
this is because
we learn so much history
from the lying of one body
on another.
If it is impossible to promise
absolute fidelity,
this is because
we learn so much psychology
from the dreaming of one body
of another.
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poem by Erica Jong
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Pane Caldo
Rising in the morning
like warm bread,
from a bed
in America,
the aroma
of my baking
reaches you
in Italy,
rocking in your boat
near the Ponte Longo,
cutting through the glitter
of yesterday's moonlight
on your sunstruck
canal.
My delicious baker-
it is you
who have made
this hot bread
rise.
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poem by Erica Jong
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Time Leak
For centuries
we have lain like this,
our warmths intermingled,
our hearts beating
the same two-step,
& our breaths
& our limbs
intertwined.
Life after life,
I return to flesh
to join my flesh
to your flesh.
Sometimes I am the woman
& you the man;
sometimes,
the other way around.
It hardly matters.
Flesh after flesh,
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poem by Erica Jong
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In Praise of Clothes
If it is only for the taking off-
the velvet cloak,
the ostrich feather boa,
the dress which slithers to the floor
with the sound of strange men sighing
on imagined street corners. . .
If it is only for the taking off-
the red lace bra
(with rosewindows of breasts),
the red lace pants
(with dark suggestion
of Venus' first name),
the black net stockings
cobwebby as fate,
criscrossed like our lives,
the silver sandals
glimmering as rain-
clothes are necessary.
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poem by Erica Jong
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The Birth Of The Water Baby
Little egg,
little nub,
full complement of
fingers, toes,
little rose blooming
in a red universe,
which once wanted you less
than emptiness,
but now holds you
fast,
containing your rapid heart
beat under its
slower one
as the earth
contains the sea...
O avocado pit
almost ready to sprout,
tiny fruit tree
within sight
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poem by Erica Jong
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If God is a Dog
If God is a dog drowsing,
contemplating
the quintessential dogginess
of the universe, of the whole
canine race, why are we
uneasy?
No dog I know
would hurl thunderbolts,
or plant plague germs,
or shower us with darts
of pox or gonococci.
No. He lies on his back
awaiting
the cosmic belly rub.
He wags his tail signifying
universal love.
He frolics and cavorts
because he has just
taken a galactic shit
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poem by Erica Jong
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Narcissus, Photographer
"...a frozen memory, like any photo,
where nothing is missing, not even,
and especially, nothingness..."
-- Julio Cortázar, "Blow Up"
Mirror-mad,
he photographed reflections:
sunstorms in puddles,
cities in canals,
double portraits framed
in sunglasses,
the fat phantoms who dance
on the flanks of cars.
Nothing caught his eye
unless it bent
or glistered
over something else.
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poem by Erica Jong
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Letter to Myselves
You can be hurt
because you want too much;
because in your face it says:
love me, nurture me;
because in your teeth it says:
sugar flows to us;
because in your tongue it says:
drive in the spike.
You can be hurt
because you care too much
because your ribs swing out like shutters
& your heart
glows like a night light.
You can be hurt
because you need too much
because your skin comes off in streamers
& your veins
twang like guitar strings.
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poem by Erica Jong
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