by being chaste as if we writhed in rut.
The long sharp heads of your son's arrows cut
as deep. Your briars draw blood. We cannot rest
our beds burn with the Furies' punishment
for what we have not done and will not do.
Yet do not think this disrespect to you.
We both know this – our heart are still as rent
our eyes as sore with weeping. We don't touch
and never will. The scent upon our skins
will never mingle, yet among our sins
stern men who list such things account this much
Ah goddess, hear us. Our's a love that moans
never relieves this ache as deep as bones.