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(26 March 1942 / New York City)

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A Question Mark

There is a hinge
of bone
where your chin joins
your cheek.
I like to stroke it
in the flicker
of a local movie;

I like to take
your laborer;s hand
when you are
cautiously-
(O proof of love!)-
driving my car.

You bring me gifts
of food;
I write you
poems of blood.

Your scars are vertical;
mine are horizontal.

You lost your spleen;
I loosed a daughter
on the world.

Your hinge of bone
tells jokes;
while mine chants
poems.

An unlikely pair,
though which pair
is ever likely?

When I cannot
look at your face,
I look
at your cock-
a question mark
asking the sky

how can
heaven
be fucked?

Submitted: Wednesday, March 28, 2012


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Comments about this poem (Beast, Book, Body by Erica Jong )

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  • David Wall (12/16/2012 12:24:00 AM)

    very nice poem i love the way you write

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  • Kevin Patrick (7/6/2012 1:31:00 PM)

    I sense there is a difference in the stratosphere of relations which creates a conundrum of how to love someon that is foreing at heart. Your last line had me laughing my spleen

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