Not sloth but thought of you keeps me abed.
I summon you up, nuzzling the sheets
as if mere want might lie in your stead,
my hands manage to rival our feats.
I no longer hold you in my sleep.
Even when you feature in a dream
I pinch myself awake. No slumber’s deep
enough to mask you’re not the mate you seem.
Why should I rise and dress if not in quest
of you, who’ve led me to this cul-de-sac?
More than absence leaves me this depressed.
Finding you would never bring you back.
If pain be proof of love, then love it must
have been. If not, what pain there is in lust.
***
Although the experience which inspired this poem dates from 1975, it did not reach anywhere near its present form until 1983, during the years I think of as my golden age of poetry. I was a simple wine merchant, working and living in Berkeley, far removed from my subsequent academic concerns. Once the day’s work was over, I had time and inspiration to experiment with forms like this sonnet, very different than writing about sonnets.
Succubi appear to be coming back strong in popular culture thanks to the contemporary fascination with vampires. I can’t help but observe that Latin roots of the words endorse a conventional, missionary perspective on sexual positions (from succub(āre) “to lie under” < sub- “under” +cubāre “to lie in bed”), as does the male counterpart, incubus (incubāre, “to lie upon”).