Blood & Honey
I began by loving women
& the love turned
to bitterness.
My mother, the bitter,
whose bitter lesson-
trust no one,
especially no male-
caused me to be naive
for too many years,
in mere rebellion
against that bitterness.
If she was Medea,
I would be Candide
& bleed in every sexual war,
& water my garden with menstrual blood
& grow the juiciest fruits.
(Like the woman
who watered her roses with blood
& won all the prizes,
though no one knew why.)
If she was Lady Macbeth,
I would be Don Quixote-
& never pass up a windmill
without a fight,
& never choose discretion
over valor.
My valor was often foolish.
I was rash
(though others called me brave).
My poems were red flags
To lure the bulls.
The picadors smelled blood
& jabbed my novels.
I had only begun
by loving women-
& ended by hating their deceit,
hating the hate
they feed their daughters,
hating the self-hate
they feed themselves,
hating the contempt
they feed their men,
as they claim weakness-
their secret strength.
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poem by Erica Jong
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