My darling, I'm upstairs sipping hot tea and thinking of you. This morning featured ghost cars, a look back at my house, a ping from Heist-op-den-berg concerning cilantro aversion, a restless query from Saudi Arabia - 'what is the name of james who sing say something,' a lovely song by Graham Parker whose name I finally corrected, my discovery of amazingly sexy poetry by Ovid, a nap by the stove, a report of coyotes that drink from the ditch, and many fervent thoughts of you.
Amores, Book I, 5, Ovid (43 B.C.-A.D. 17)
Siesta time in sultry summer.
I lay relaxed on the divan.
One shutter closed, the other ajar,
made sylvan semi-darkness,
a glimmering dusk, as after sunset,
or between night's end and day's beginning--
the half light shy girls need
to hide their hesitation.
At last--Corinna. On the loose in a short dress,
long hair parted and tumbling past the pale neck--
lovely as Lais of the many lovers,
Queen Semiramis gliding in.
I grabbed the dress; it didn't hide much,
but she fought to keep it,
only half-heartedly though.
Victory was easy, as self-betrayal.
There she stood, faultless beauty
in front of me, naked.
Shoulders and arms challenging eyes and fingers.
Nipples firmly demanding attention.
Breasts in high relief above the smooth belly.
Long and slender waist. Thighs of a girl.
Why list perfection?
I hugged her tight.
The rest can be imagined--we fell asleep.
Such afternoons are rare.
translated by Guy Lee