Friday, September 19, 2008

Poem, from Fear of Flying, by Erica Jong

The man under the bed
The man who has been there for years waiting
The man who waits for my floating bare foot
The man who is silent as dustballs riding the
The man whose breath is the breathing of small
white butterflies
The man whose breathing I hear when I pick up
the phone
The man in the mirror whose breath blackens
The boneman in closets who rattles the mothballs
The man at the end of the line
I met him tonight I always meet him
He stands in the amber air of a bar
When the shrimp curl like beckoning fingers
& ride through the air on their toothpick skewers
When the ice cracks & I am about to fall through
he arranges his face around its hollows
he opens his pupilless eyes at me
For years he has waited to drag me down
& now he tells me
he has only waited to take me home
We waltz through the street like death & the
We float through the wall of the wall of my room

If he's my dream he will fold back into my body
His breath writes letters of mist on the glass of
my cheeks
I wrap myself around him like darkness
I breathe into his mouth
& make him real


Scheyenne Zigzag said...

Nice one. It's good that she wasn't afraid of writing.

Moonaroo said...

I like that. I am glad that she wasn't afraid of writing either. The world would be a poorer place if she had been.