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?
poem by Erica Jong
Added by Poetry Lover
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