I try to keep
falling in love
if only to keep
death
at bay.
I know
that the burned
witches,
that the seared flesh
of the enemy-
O we are all
each other's
enemies,
even sometimes those
who lately
were
lovers-
are not
to be reconstituted
nor healed
by my
falling
in love;
& yet
here is
the paradox:
love drives
the poem-
& the poem
is
hope.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Somebody once said that Erica Jong's writing is not for the faint of heart. I agree. She provokes too much thought which is uncomfortable for those who like their leisure to be smug and snug.