"St. Vincent (of Saragossa)" by Augustin Théodule Ribot‘My Sickness Is a Mistress’ by Kevin Blankinship The Society August 31, 2020 Coronavirus, Culture, Poetry 5 Comments I made her a bed with cushions and throws but she refused and slept in my bones. My skin, too tight for both my sighs and hers so she filled it with rot, making it home. —Al-Mutanabbi, d. 965 CE She loves me till my body fades away. Kissing-with-fever paints my veins in smoke. My sickness is a mistress come to stay. Today are wind-dried stalks like copper hay; yesterday all the leaves were on the oak. She loves me till my body fades away. Caressing me with sweats, she starts to flay, then stabs with final poison, like a joke. My sickness is a mistress come to stay. Now I, her wasted victim—zealous prey, see-through with lust, I faintly start to choke. She loves me till my body fades away, then beds me with her fester-rot-decay, covering skin and bone just like a cloak. My sickness is a mistress come to stay. Yet I do feel worse when she doesn’t stay and takes from me her kindly fatal stroke. Please, love me till my body fades away. O sickness, be my mistress. Come to stay. Kevin Blankinship is a professor of Arabic at Brigham Young University. His essays and poetry have appeared in The Atlantic, The Los Angeles Review of Books, The Times Literary Supplement, The Millions, Gingerbread House, Blue Unicorn, and more. Follow him on Twitter @AmericanMaghreb. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 5 Responses Mike Bryant August 31, 2020 This is a very well crafted villanelle. This unusual conceit reminds me of my mother-in-law who has been enjoying a succession of illnesses her entire life. In fact, we joke that her tombstone will read, “I told you I was sick!” Reply Jeff Eardley August 31, 2020 Mike, the famous quote “I told you I was ill” comes from the gravestone of English comedian Spike Milligan. I think he had the last laugh as it is inscribed in Gaelic. Reply David Watt August 31, 2020 I find this villanelle to be striking, and skillfully written. Reply Sally Cook August 31, 2020 Speaking as one who can hear color, this well made poem is a striking example of personification. Congratulations ! Reply Margaret Coats September 1, 2020 Well-executed, if I dare say so! An excellent array of different images to paint the picture, including those three-word hyphenations, “kissing-with-fever” and “fester-rot-decay.” I tripped over the rhythm in line 16, and think it might be better stressing both “feel” and “worse,” as in “Yet worse I feel when she cuts short her stay.” Other than that, it reads quite smoothly, effectively leading up to the stopping-rhythm of two separate sentences in the final line. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.