The Conversation, written by Sappho

He must feel blooded with the spirit of a god

to sit opposite you and listen, and reply,

to your talk, your laughter, your touching,

breath-held silences. But what I feel, sitting here

and watching you, so stops my heart and binds

my tongue that I can’t think what I might say

to breach the aureole around you there.

It’s as if someone with flint and stone had sparked

a fire that kindled the flesh along my arms

and smothered me in its smoke-blind rush.

Paler than the summer grass, it seems

I am already dead, or a little short of dying.