An Electric Blanket Is Not the Same as a Lover
An electric blanket is not the same as a lover.
Oh you can wrap yourself up in it and pretend the gentle pressure
is the cradling arms and a cushiony belly and two loving legs,
and you can close your eyes and wet your lips
and imagine that the saliva belongs to someone else.
You can even put your hand under the pillow
and it will seem a little like the beautiful weight of another's head,
but wishing won't make it so, not in a year of lonely nights
(which are ten times as long as any other kind).
For an electric blanket is not the same as a lover.
It will keep you warm but no matter how high you turn the control
it will never be ardent or tender with you.
And when you wake in the morning, the lover you imagined your blanket was
will be gone, and you will have been abandoned.
It may not really matter whether you whisper your thoughts
into the warm pink conch of an ear
or the cold white weave of your pillowcase,
but those tiny threads will never whisper anything back to you,
not in a year of lonely nights,
which are ten times as long as any other kind.
--
Again, no date for this one, but it was probably written in late 1971 or in 1972.
An electric blanket is not the same as a lover.
Oh you can wrap yourself up in it and pretend the gentle pressure
is the cradling arms and a cushiony belly and two loving legs,
and you can close your eyes and wet your lips
and imagine that the saliva belongs to someone else.
You can even put your hand under the pillow
and it will seem a little like the beautiful weight of another's head,
but wishing won't make it so, not in a year of lonely nights
(which are ten times as long as any other kind).
For an electric blanket is not the same as a lover.
It will keep you warm but no matter how high you turn the control
it will never be ardent or tender with you.
And when you wake in the morning, the lover you imagined your blanket was
will be gone, and you will have been abandoned.
It may not really matter whether you whisper your thoughts
into the warm pink conch of an ear
or the cold white weave of your pillowcase,
but those tiny threads will never whisper anything back to you,
not in a year of lonely nights,
which are ten times as long as any other kind.
--
Again, no date for this one, but it was probably written in late 1971 or in 1972.
