A man so sick that the sexual soup <br />cannot save him - <br /> <br />the chicken soup of sex <br />which cures everything: <br />tossed mane of noodles, <br />bits of pale white meat. <br />the globules of yellow fat <br />like love... <br /> <br />But he is a man so sick <br />no soup can save him. <br /> <br />His throat has healed into a scar. <br />Rage fills his guts. <br />He wants to diet on dust. <br /> <br />I offered to feed him <br />(spoon by spoon) <br />myself. <br /> <br />I offered my belly as a bowl. <br />I offered my hands as spoons, <br />my knees as tongs, <br />my breasts as the chafing dish <br />to keep us warm <br /> <br />I offered my navel <br />as a brandy snifter. <br /> <br />"My tongue is gone," he said, <br />"I have no teeth. <br />My mouth is with my mother in the grave. <br />I've offered up my hunger to the air, <br />my nostrils to the wind, <br />my sex to death, <br />my eyes to nothingness & dust." <br /> <br />"What do you lust for then?" <br />I asked. <br /> <br />"I lust for nothing."<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sexual-soup/
