Knowing Not Whom I Love, or Why

by Brett Rutherford 

     after Callimachus, Epigram 42 

Am I half-dead
or am I half-alive?
I know not which;
my soul is split
and I am heavy
with longing. Love’s end
is a small slice of Death,
so it is hard to tell.

Something between my
head and breast
has gone hollow.
Is there someone
I should be thinking of?

Is it one among those boys
I see too often already.
Have I not cautioned them,
as they circle my table —
the flirts! — “Don’t let me
fall in love with you!”

 What part of me, then,
sits here like a ghost,
giving out lovesick glances —
where, and to whom?
Knowing not who
has made me feel this way
is certain madness.

If this be not
a fore-taste of the tomb,
show me a face, at least,
or let me be put
into the market for stoning.