Lesbia Recalls Meeting Catullus
That night you came and dined with us
there was a wind, then soft rain.
My hair was dressed by Aemilia
who does it to perfection, and I wore no jewelry
except the brooch my husband gave me.
When I barked at you he laughed thinking
I was scornful of your youth.
I barked – and burned. The spark was there.
Some call it love, an arrow or an illness,
a misfortune not to be evaded.
I don’t call it anything but strange.
Why one and not another? Dear boy,
I said to you that night, love is not a wound.
You thought I meant to lure you with those words
and so, to end the evening, you read a poem by Sappho.
The sweet murmur of your voice
makes my heart beat faster.
One glance from you and I can’t speak.
A thin flame slides beneath my skin,
cold sweat trickles down my back,
I turn pale as dry grass.
Of course I knew that poem
and knew you left off both the start
and end of it, to hide what you were saying
and to whom.
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