~Keats: Isabella or The Pot of Basil (after Boccaccio)

 
You saw me first Isabella, passing

beneath your window. Tongue stilled,

dagger at my throat. You mistook my silence

for indifference. I smiled in spite of myself.

The wind filled your ears with sounds

you alone could hear. Lorenzo. My name

travelled like a curse from your lips.

From your lips I rode

into a forest quiet for the slaughter.
Later, in the glade, we met again.

In the shade of a poison oak – you above

I below – we spoke

of gold and wasted hours

(beneath the wasted stars

among the wasted flowers).

Your black nails dripped with silt.

My black mouth smiled

in spite of itself.
You kissed me once and tried the word – love.

Then quickly buried me like a guilt.