The Truce Between the Sexes

For a long time unhappy

with my man,

I blamed men,

blamed marriage, blamed

the whole bleeding world,

Because I could not lie in bed with him

without lying to him

or else to myself,

& lying to myself

became increasingly hard

as my poems

struck rock.



My life & my poems lived apart;

I had to marry them,

& marrying them

meant divorcing him,

divorcing the lie.



Now I lie in bed

with my poems on the sheets

& a man I love

sleeping or reading

at my side.



Because I love him,

I do not think of him

as 'Men,'

but as my friend.

Hate generalizes;

love is particular.



He is not Men, man, male-

all those maddening m's

muttering like machine-gun spittle,

but only a person like me,

dreaming, vulnerable, scared,

his dreams

opening into rooms

where the chairs

are wishes you can sit on

& the rugs are wonderful

with oriental birds.



The first month we lived together

I was mad with joy,

thinking that a person with a penis

could dream, tell jokes, even cry.

Now I found it usual,

& when other women sputter

of their rage,

I look at them blankly,

half comprehending

those poor medieval creatures

from a dark, dark age.



I wonder about myself.

Was I always so fickle?

Must politics always be personal?

If I struck oil,

would I crusade

for depletion allowances?



Erica, Erica,

you are hard on yourself.

Lie back & enjoy the cease-fire.



Trouble will come again.

Sex will grow horns & warts.

The white sheets of this bed

will be splattered with blood.

Just wait.



But I don't believe it.

There will be trouble enough,

but a different sort.