“I am air and fire. . .”

— Shakespeare

“Alexandria's palaces

Were covered with sweet shade.”

—Pushkin

Already, she's kissed her cold Antony on his dead lips.

Already, she's kneeled down in front of Augustus and cried.

And now she's betrayed by the servants: victorious trumpets

sound under the Eagle of Rome, and the darkness spreads wide.

The last of her beauty's tall conquests comes in, his voice grave;

his stammering whisper enfolds her as he bends to say,

“They'll lead you past him in the Triumph--you, like a slave. . .”

Her throat, like the neck of a swan, holds its tranquil sway.

Tomorrow, the children in chains. And so little remaining

for her in the world; just to banter again with this man,

then take the black snake in a gesture like pity, and bring

it close to her rich breast at last, with a casual hand.

[ Translated with George Kline]

From Spells (Originally published in Diner and Drunken Boat)