Summer Ice

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
an immortal love affair begins (excerpt from my novella Finding Lesbos)

Submitted: March 16, 2016

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Submitted: March 16, 2016



Antanasia Dobrogeana, my perpetual paradox,

Rare displaced species, sweet ancient love,

Unwavering predator, so like a wounded dove,

Your ambush lay in innocence.

I recognized your contradiction, faintly

Aglow, behind your elliptical jade eyes;

When you lifted your metaphysical disguise,

Briefly, (I now suspect, entirely by design);

Your gown was scarlet, flames of silk and satin,

No less aflame, than your wild auburn hair,

A choker of rubies bled around your neck;

Dangling a solitary bloodstone as a dormant heart

Above alabaster breasts;

You arrived, unnoticed, strangely, save for me;

Glided down the stairs as any apparition might

That sultry autumn night at my country home;

In late autumn of 1790;


Near the midnight hour of my All Saints masquerade,

While ghosts and goblins danced in colorful arrays;

I sought an empty balcony alone to leisurely refresh,

There beneath a canopy of stars and hunter’s moon,

Awestruck, when you appeared so suddenly, hauntingly,

Then whispered your name close to my ear; Antanasia;

Your eyes were lustfully elfish, playfully inviting,

Promising a lovers bed; (need more be said);

Then vertigo, green swirls of fire burning from within,

Pulling me in, scorching my soul;

You were feverously bold, my ageless Antanasia;

I knew who you were, intuitively or otherwise,

(Rather, let me rightfully say, what you were);  

Yet, analogous to a defenseless rabbit,

Mesmerized by a viper's incapacitating stare,

I was helpless to retreat from you; (Nor do I dare);

Instead, you drew me closer, ever closer,

Until I could feel your exquisite, heatless lips,

Feel them linger upon my flushed cheek,

A sorceress device, delicate as snowflakes,

That burned slowly down my neck

Like summer ice;


My first reaction was to wince, cry out,

To weep, as the hot sting of your hedonist fangs

Pricked the subtle flesh of my throat, yet,

I did not recoil, nor swoon, nor did I cower

From your exotic embrace, rather slid my arm

Around your slender waist, and pressed two,

Into a single silhouette, then gasped,

Once more chaste, to bleed virgin blood for you,

As your fangs plunged their length deeper into me,

When your ivory needles found my wild pulse,

Pounding like the fists of an impertinent child,

Against a chamber door you insisted to be open;

All the while hoping, for eternity;


You did not stop with the imbibing of my blood,

Rather, you drew from me much more than sanguineous wine;

You lay with me, our bodies stripped naked, intertwined,

Save for what ghosts may veil the wicked; For Antanasia,

You and I were incredibly wicked that sultry autumn eve,

As if Pan stood by our bedside playing his provocative lute,

Enticing an orgy of two, yet far more than two, devoured;

For each hour that ensued, you and I were not the same lovers,

As the lovers the hour before; (grâce à ma amour);

Breath to breathless, your bloodied kisses resurrected

Me, moaning, screaming, glistening like damp moonlight;

We were torrid viragos, my Antanasia and I,

Until the raw of morning blushed upon a thin blue sky.

© Copyright 2018 Dame Lamia. All rights reserved.

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