Because I Would Not Admit

The beauty of a poem like this is being able to read it, look back, and admit.
Then change.



And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
--William Blake

Because I would not admit
that I had nurtured
an enemy within my breast--

a lover who wanted to gnaw
my secret rose,
a lover who wanted to press me
between the covers of a book,
then burn it,
a lover-usurper who wanted
to take my soul--

I nearly died,
running my car upon rocks
like a badly steered sloop,
crashing into trees
like a hurricane gale,
burning my arms in ovens
(when I thought I was only
baking bread). . . .

To admit the betrayal
was worse than
the fact of betrayal--
for I loved him
as leaves love sun,
turning my face to him,
to be filled with a dream
of children, a dream of books
& babies sprouting like leaves
from a spring tree,
a dream of trees that leaked blood
instead of sap. . . .

The dream’s the thing--
the dream we die for,
turning our faces to the sun,
eyes closed, never seeing it has
gone out:
dead star, it blazes coldly
over a dead planet
while we bask in its afterglow,
now remembered in the mind.

He was fond
of stars & telescopes;
fond of machines, fond
of building the most complex
contraptions
to scale the clouds.
But Icarus flies
near the sun with waxen wings,
& does not think of gears
or motors.

Trees rise up at him
as he falls; the earth
rushes to meet him
like a lover
raising her writhing hips;
the wings weep their waxy tears
& fall apart;
the sun is hot
on his face.

But even as he falls
he is in ecstasy;
his sun has not
gone out.
-Erica Jong