The old self <br />like a dybbuk <br />clutching at my heel. <br />She wants to come back. <br />She is digging <br />her long red nails <br />into the tender meat of my thighs. . . <br />She tweaks my clit, <br />hoping that my sexaholic self <br />will surface <br />and take me back, back, back <br /> <br />to the land of fuck, <br />where, crazed with lust <br />I come over and over again, <br />going nowhere. <br /> <br />The old self <br />does not like <br />her displacement. <br />She resents the new tenant <br />sprucing up <br />her disorderly house. <br /> <br />She resents <br />the calm woman <br />nourishing her roses, <br />her daughter, her dogs, <br />her poems, her passionate <br />friendships. <br />She wants chaos <br />and angst and Liebstod. <br />She claims <br />she can't write <br />without them. <br /> <br />But the new tenant <br />is wise to her tricks. <br />Disorder is not poetry, <br />she says. Pain <br />is not love. <br />Love flowers; love gives <br />without taking; <br />love is serene <br />and calm. <br /> <br />I talk to the dybbuk: <br /> <br />My darling dybbuk, <br />I will love you <br />into submission. <br />Tweak me, I will only <br />caress you. <br />Claw me, I will only <br />kiss you back. <br /> <br />For what I have learned <br />lets me love <br />even my demon. <br /> <br />Demon-I love you <br />for you are <br />mine, <br />I say. <br /> <br />And demons die <br />of love.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lullabye-for-dybbuk/
