I try to keep
falling in love
if only to keep
death

at bay.

I know
that the burned
witches,
that the seared flesh
of the enemy--

O we are all
each other's
enemies,
even sometimes those
who lately
were

lovers--

are not
to be reconstituted
nor healed

by my
falling
in love;

& yet
here is
the paradox:

love drives
the poem--

& the poem
is
hope.

© Erica Mann Jong

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