You open to me <br />a little, <br />then grow afraid <br />and close again, <br />a small boy <br />fearing to be hurt, <br />a toe stubbed <br />in the dark, <br />a finger cut <br />on paper. <br /> <br />I think I am free <br />of fears, <br />enraptured, abandoned <br />to the call <br />of the Bacchae, <br />my own siren, <br />tied to my own <br />mast, <br />both Circe <br />and her swine. <br /> <br />But I too <br />am afraid: <br />I know where <br />life leads. <br /> <br />The impulse <br />to join, <br />to confess all, <br />is followed <br />by the impulse <br />to renounce, <br /> <br />and love-- <br />imperishable love-- <br />must die, <br />in order <br />to be reborn. <br /> <br />We come <br />to each other <br />tentatively, <br />veterans of other <br />wars, <br />divorce warrants <br />in our hands <br />which we would beat <br />into blossoms. <br /> <br />But blossoms <br />will not withstand <br />our beatings. <br /> <br />We come <br />to each other <br />with hope <br />in our hands-- <br />the very thing <br />Pandora kept <br />in her casket <br />when all the ills <br />and woes of the world <br />escaped.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/middle-aged-lovers-ii/
