anaïs nin to henry miller
by Anne Tammel

My search for you is endless…
Searching, seeming
like a wife, an insatiable

wife…a lover
of silk, and words,
and your breath…
You taunt me; a baby
rests at the tip of my torture.
Your torment travels

through me as I travel,
morning trains, and cafes—
Paris, and ships to Spain—

and then America…
where I will fight
not to remember

your name. An endless
list of lovers, knowing
only my totality, my silhouette

parfaite. If they knew—if
they were seized by you—seized
by your words, fighting to

forget the supreme immolation
of the ego: motherhood,
that endless, volatile curse…

And Hugh waits, an endless
trail of dull husbandry; I wait
an endless amount of time,

until our lives have
become dust and
history, and

red silk journals
are covered
in sweat

Return to:

[New] [Archives] [Join] [Contact Us] [Poetry in Motion] [Store] [Staff] [Guidelines]