by Adrienne Rich (b. 1929)

In the following poem, reminiscent of the enthusiastic attitude of the ancient Greeks, Adrienne Rich speaks of lust that "too is a jewel."

1

Sex, as they harshly call it,

I fell into this morning

at ten o'clock, a drizzling hour

of traffic and wet newspapers.

I thought of him who yesterday

clearly didn't

turn me to a hot field

ready for plowing,

and longing for that young man

pierced me to the roots

bathing every vein, etc.

All day he appears to me

touchingly desirable,

a prize one could wreck one's peace for.

I'd call it love if love

didn't take so many years

but lust too is a jewel

a sweet flower and what

pure happiness to know

all our high-toned questions

breed in a lively animal.

2

That "old last act"!

And yet sometimes

all seems post coitum triste

and I a mere bystander.

Somebody else is going off,

getting shot to the moon.

Or, a moon-race!

Split seconds after

my opposite number lands

I make it---

we lie fainting together

at a crater-edge

heavy as mercury in our moonsuits

till he speaks---

in a different language

yet one I've picked up

through cultural exchanges. . .

we murmur the first moonwords:

Spasibo. Thanks. O.K.