I thought when first I held in store
A silent, guarded bit of me
That at last conquered your will,
I was a child in fear of men.
You, who vows like medals wore,
To whom committal came so free,
Were a woman — while I was still
A boy in games I should have ended.
Or so it seemed. Now it seems no more
Than endless promises and pleas,
An open contract never filled,
A life I cannot quite begin.
If so, I guess a boy I’ll be.
I’d like to give instead of lend;
But each time that I think it’s time,
Someone else comes by to borrow.
So I’ve ne’re belonged to none but me,
Doubtful that I might ever mend.
I keep a store of me as mine,
For who knows who might come tomorrow?
st, 1978
Talca
For Linda…
___________________
© 1978, R.S. Adamcik
adamcikb@pobox.com
Women and the biological-psychological craving to pair up present an appalling challenge to the value one places on personal freedom. The sense of personal freedom is intensely felt in every fiber of one’s being, inseparable from the bedrock conviction, the sensation of being alive. The prospect of relinquishing it can inspire crippling anxiety. Our fellow humans do relinquish it with no sense of what is being given up, though multitudes do see it later. I do not think it immature to keep one’s life for oneself: castigating oneself for doing so involves yielding to the standards of the environing culture, a repository of mass enthusiasms bequeathed by history whose values are ultimately not your own. But it might require the long passage of years to see that and to finally accept it.