The wind has continued for days on end, the sun hazy, the surf magnificent in its wildness, all craft beached, no gulls anywhere, a sense of abandonment throughout our town, people scurrying to get indoors.
Only in the garden is there shelter, near the fountain. An angle of the house shuts off the strongest blasts.
I have ordered everyone to work. At least they appear busy.
While the wind howled, a tempest rose in me.
I woke during the night to fight it. Yet, there it was, that perfect symmetry, stripped to the waist, brown caulking material in his hands. I did not need to light a lamp. I had memorized his body. We were moving toward the submerged city; I saw myself swimming beside him; in the water, he was above me, then below me; then we were one, diving together.
I have fought other storms in my blood, and yet this one, with the wind howling, the surf beating, threatens to overcome me. I have never felt more deserted. Death and blindness have made my bed sterile.
How shall I cope with this whirlwind? What does it know of surfeit, satiety?
I’m too old, compared to his twenty or twenty-two. He may have a woman of his own, a country girl, a young, simple, laughing slip of a thing who satisfies him.
In my dream I saw him at the prow of his boat, talking with Kleis.
I see Phaon in his bed, his young arms, his young legs, his close- cropped hair, blue eyes, smooth face.
Like a storm punishing the olives, love shakes me.
Another letter has reached me from Aesop. Still in Adelphi, he writes he has been sick with fever.
“My consolation is that I am sick for good reasons. I am sick of men being mistreated. I am sick of injustice.
“As you know, I have been more than a fly on a chariot wheel. I have spoken out publicly and this has raised dust and stones. People stare at me on the streets.
“I am sick of the aristocrats. I am sick of prejudice and ignorance. There must be a better life.
“A free society...this is the most fabulous joke of all time. The ones who rant loudest about it would run the farthest, were it to happen.
“I may have to flee soon, back to Corinth, it seems. These rulers here have friends. They know how to apply pressure.
“Write me, Sappho. I need your sense of the gracious. Beauty foremost—I wish I could think as you think.