The women he has had are all faces
without eyes.
He has entered them blind
as a cut worm.
He has swum their oceans
like a wounded fish
looking for home.

At nights when he can't sleep,
he dreams of weaving
backward up that river
where the banks
are fringed with mouths,
& weedy hair
grows amid the dark crusts
of ancient blood.

Tonight he is afraid & lonely
in a city of meat & knives.
I would go under his knife
& move so willingly
that his heart
might turn to butter
in his mouth.

© Erica Mann Jong

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