I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I used to do
on many sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,
and your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.
Your sweet head would bow,
like a child somehow,
down to me –
and your hair and your eyes were wild.
We would embrace on the floor-
You see my back´s still sore.
You knew how easily I bruised,
It´s a soreness I would never lose.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.
(Erica Jong)
More Poetry from Erica Jong:
Erica Jong Poems based on Topics: Woman, Home- To Whom It May Concern (Erica Jong Poem)
- The Poem Cat (Erica Jong Poem)
- The Poet Fears Failure (Erica Jong Poem)
- People Who Live (Erica Jong Poem)
- Smoke (Erica Jong Poem)
- The Artist as an Old Man (Erica Jong Poem)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Home Poems, Woman PoemsBased on Keywords: afternoons, bruised, smelled, ached, soreness