The Death Of Goddesses
It used to be hard
for women,
snowed in their white lives,
white lies,
to write books
with that fine frenzy
which commends genius
to posterity,
yet estranges it
from its closest
friends.
Women were friends to all,
& being too friendly
they could not command
the unfriendly prerogatives
of genius,
though some were
geniuses still,
destroying
only themselves
with the torment
of the unfriendly ghost
trapped in a friendly
form.
Oh the women who died
dissembling friendship
for the world!
Oh the women who turned
the dagger inward
when it wished
to go out,
who impaled themselves
on Womanhood itself!
No vampire
could be
as greedy for blood,
no father or husband
as bullying.
A woman punishing herself
with her own pain
is a fierce opponent indeed.
It is self against self,
dagger to dagger,
blood of her blood,
blood of her daughter,
blood of her mother,
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poem by Erica Jong
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