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.