Dear Succubus

Ornery and ancient
enemy of happiness,
does it alarm you
that at last I can see how you’ve grown:
your barnacled
tree stump,
your florid hump,
your half pints of bitters
bitterly cresting me.
I don’t understand what
you’ve been saving up.
How warm is my body?
Aren’t there warmer bodies?
Have you always been with me?
(I think so). And if so,
when will my blood
turn the tide of yours?
When will you become
what I would have become?
When do I get to pummel
your lungs and crouch
like a toad on your chest?
Or, more likely, when you’re nearly done with me,
when do I float free, whittled
into near-air, thin as thistledown—
and if so, remember:
thistledown, so unlike its father,
thistledown, that little fuse.

Copyright © 2009 Lee Upton All rights reserved
from The National Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission