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“Gods no!” He laughs. “We poets only write about new love, lost love, or unrequited love. These are much clearer and easier to express. Long-standing love, rooted and fermented, is impossible to wax poetic about since it’s as complex as the Minotaur’s maze and yet as boring to watch for an audience as a lump of dry cheese.”
“And me?” I ask. “Is your fondness for me like others?”
The Poet pushes my hair from my eyes. I want him to lie to me. I want him to say, “No, Rose, no, you are the one I have always longed for, you are the only one who understands my passion. I would leave all for you, my plays, my actors, my wife.” But instead, he says …
“It’s silly to weigh oneself against others, Rose. Of course I have fondness for you, just not as I do her. In fact, you torture me in a way that she could never. See here.” He pulls a scroll from his bag and hands it to me. I unwind and read.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
“This is a love poem?” I ask, barely containing my displeasure.
“Yes,” he says, smiling, utterly pleased with himself.
“A love poem that implies I have bad breath, walk like an ogre, and am somehow ill-colored? You call my hair ‘wires!’ These are not kind words, poet.”
“Read it again,” he begs, bothered that I would dare criticize his words. “Pay attention at the end. I flip it around. See there!” He points to the couplet at the end.
So, I read the sonnet again. I see the backbend compliment this time. It is the sort of jovial praise my father would give me as a child, when he’d speak kindly of my mud cakes, then insult me about my dirt covered face. I have seen other compliments like it from my many pink-faced English lovers. They always need to express their surprise at daring to desire someone like me: a darker-skinned, foreign-born, black-eyed woman, so different from their bloodless, breakable English girls. They, like the Poet, think they are complimenting me by these declarations, but it’s not what I want. If he is to write me something, I want him to write me a sonnet I can show the world and say, “Look here, I am worthy, I am better, I am precious to this handsome and famous poet.”
“I see the compliment now,” I lie, giving a little half-hearted smile. “It’s sweet. Thank you.” I begin to dress. “Alas, I’m hungry and I’m sure you need to get back to your company—”
Seeing my pout, he embraces me tightly in his naked arms. “You drive me mad, Rose—”
“Stop,” I say, pushing him away. “There’s no need.”
“Why are you angry?” he asks, like a child who knows he has done something wrong. “I swear the poem is professing my affection for you. I’m sorry if it offended you in any way. That was not my intention. Come back to bed please?”
I see the contrition in his eyes and how he offers his naked body in supplication. While his poem was rude and ignorant, I do see its intended meaning. I let my pout turn to a smile, and we tumble back into bed. I lay my head on his hairy belly. “So you cherish me?”
“I do,” he says. “As much as I am capable. But we agreed that our wives and husbands must come first, didn’t we? Do you have affection for me beyond what we have agreed?”
“Of course not,” I laugh. “I am loyal to our contract. You forget my father is a merchant. I was just estimating my value to you. I will not, however, be used as some bawdy house slut.”
