by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from
Meleager, The Greek Anthology, xii, 49
Unhappy lovers drink
their wine unwatered,
as if strong spirits washed
clean one’s memory.
Does Bacchus trade
in amnesia, then?
Is love thus quenched
entirely gone, or does
it come back bitter,
a dark bell hovering
above the hung-over head,
a low gong sounding,
not top of the day’s joy,
but the Beloved’s name
endlessly rung
in one’s ears? Pain,
like a jovial demon,
puts on the face
of the very boy one wants
to put out of mind.
Rise up to find a mess:
spilled cups at the bed’s foot,
the shards of a shattered cask,
unsent, that torn love-note,
a single sandal not your own,
crumbs everywhere.
The risen sun
mocks the drinker,
and the first word out
of the vinegar mouth
is the same moan
you went to bed with,
blankets and pillows
the sad sculpture
you wrapped your arms
around, pronouncing
one name, his name,
the same name. Wine
doesn’t help a bit.
