Эрика Йонг. Зверь, книга, тело

I was sick of being a woman,
sick of the pain,
the irrelevant detail of
my own concavity 
useless 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.