“A serpent!” echoed he; no sooner said
than with a frightful scream she vanished
and Lycius’ arms were empty of delight,
as were his limbs of life, from that same night.
—John Keats, “Lamia”

Do you hear me, Lycius? Do you hear these dreams
moving like words out of the air, it seems?
You think you saw me thin into a ghost,
impaled by his old eyes, with their shuddering boast
of pride that kills truth with philosophy.
But you hear this voice. It is a serpent’s, or
is it a woman’s, this a rich-emblazoned core
reaching out loud for you, as I once reached
for you with clinging hands, and held you, and beseeched?
I had a woman’s tears, and woman’s teeth
that could not bite, although the ruddy wreath
of my soft lips was closing. And my heart
crawled like a serpent. And that is the part
you married, Lycius, when you made the sun
shine over my damp earth, and grew with me to one
(I had thought our love was closer than belief,
palpable to outwit such stinging grief).
Now in the empty air, as our mouths grow slow,
open your ears to a voice that will never know
your cold and subtle school’s philosophy.
Then speak to me, with your body’s memory.

First collected in Calendars (Tupelo Press, 2003, second edition with CD, 2008).