i used to think that marriage and having kids of my own is the be-all and end-all of my life. as part of the propaganda that my mother and the institution, that i call my high school, instilled in me when i was young, that was my ultimate goal in life: find a good husband, bear and raise his kids and that's it.
but i didn't want to. i know i didn't.
i'll never be ready for that. all i can envision myself 10, 20 or 50 years from now includes a red pen for marking papers and a black pen for writing syllabi and lesson plans. maybe i'd still be in love with the same person i would have been in love with when i reach the age of 25.
but for now, i'd settle on being someone's favorite aunt.
- - -
by Erica Mann Jong
the reminder of emptiness
so that you are tuned
to your bodyharp,
strung out on the harpsichord
of all your nerves
& hammered bloody blue
as the crushed fingersof the woman pianist
beaten by her jealous lover.
Who is she?
Someone I invented for this poem,
Someone I imagined.....Never mind,
She is me, you~tied to the bodybeat,
fainting on the rack of blood
moving to the metronome~empty, empty, empty.
The blood is thicker
than the roots of trees,
more persistent than my poetry,
more baroque than her bruised music.
It gilds the sky about the Virgin's head.
It turns the lilies white.
Try to run:the blood still follows you.
Swear off children,
seek a quite roomto practice your preludes & fuges.
Under the piano,the blood accumulates;
eventually it floats you both away.
Babies cry & music is your life.
Darling, you were born to bleed
& the heart breaks