On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you little woman, little carrot top, little turned-up nose, pushing you out of myself as my mother pushed me out of herself, as her mother did, & her mother's mother before her, all of us born of woman.
I am the second daughter of a second daughter of a second daughter, but you shall be the first. You shall see the phrase "second sex" only in puzzlement, wondering how anyone, except a madman, could call you "second" when you are so splendidly first, conferring even on your mother firstness, vastness, fullness as the moon at its fullest lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again & you are four weeks old. Little lion, lioness, yowling for my breasts, rowling at the moon, how I love your lustiness, your red face demanding, your hungry mouth howling, your screams, your cries which all spell life in large letters the color of blood.
You are born a woman for the sheer glory of it, little redhead, beautiful screamer. You are no second sex, but the first of the first; & when the moon's phases fill out the cycle of your life, you will crow for the joy of being a woman, telling the pallid moon to go drown herself in the blue ocean, & glorying, glorying, glorying in the rosy wonder of your sunshining wondrous self.
Beast, Book, Body
- by Erica Jong39
I was sick of being a woman, sick of the pain, the irrelevant detail of sex, my own concavity uselessly hungering and emptier whenever it was filled, and filled finally by its own emptiness, seeking the garden of solitude instead of men.
The white bed in the green garden-- I looked forward to sleeping alone the way some long for a lover.
Even when you arrived, I tried to beat you away with my sadness, my cynical seductions, and my trick of turning a slave into a master.
And all because you made my fingertips ache and my eyes cross in passion that did not know its own name.
Bear, beast, lover of the book of my body, you turned my pages and discovered what was there to be written on the other side.
And now I am blank for you, a tabula rasa ready to be printed with letters in an undiscovered language by the great press of our love.
Poems by Erica Jong, Erica Jong's poems collection. Erica Jong is a classical and famous poet (26 March 1942 / New York City). Share all poems of Erica Jong.