Empty (erica jong)

Empty
by Erica Mann Jong

Every month,
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.
No use.
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.
Give in.
Babies cry & music is your life.
Darling, you were born to bleed
or rock.
& the heart breaks
either way.

- - -

Not something that we planned for now but still, a welcomed blessing.