Erica Jong Poems

The decorum of fire...
-- Pablo Neruda

We learned the decorum of fire,
...

Smoke, it is all smoke
in the throat of eternity. . . .
For centuries, the air was full of witches
Whistling up chimneys
...

Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
...

Because she wants to touch him,
she moves away.
Because she wants to talk to him,
she keeps silent.
...

Spring, rainbows,
ordinary miracles
about which
nothing new can be said.
...

Here, at the end of the world,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
...

People who live by the sea
understand eternity.
They copy the curves of the waves,
their hearts beat with the tides,
...

In Autumn,
as in Spring,
the sap flows,
the sap wishes to race
...

You open to me
a little,
then grow afraid
and close again,
...

The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
...