In that grotto I would go to, shadows
rocked along the tufa walls
and low waves cradled out to sea
the bay’s evening detritus. Sprawled
on a stone warmed by a ray that struck
its surface from a gap, I’d rest
until ready to enter the ocean depths
again. He saw me in that slash
of sun—was slinging his net of fish
back to another shore—dropped it, and crept
soft to my sleeping body to link his
arms around me.—Feverish heart
that pounded loudly! I woke to charge
at his hold, a heron with flapping wings
so strong they should have flung him.
He gripped hard. So I jerked upright,
a cedar tree with bristling needles
and scabrous bark—he held. I writhed
to a tiger, volcanic with tearing shafts.
He loosened and I slithered free.
—How could I be one self, yet so many?
Proteus counseled him, and when he came
a second time, as my shape ranged
from wrangling fins to brutal tufa jags,
he refused to weaken, though he bled
and burned from what flailed, lunged, or scraped.
No matter how she changes, keep
your grip. She will be what she was
eventually. Just wait. Proteus’ words.
My last form was an icicle whose crags
thrust tips like blades. Peleus wept
at such concrete estrangements
but he stayed. By the time dawn flared
on the darkened tide, I couldn’t bear
the weight of change any longer, shrank
to myself again. We slept. I dreamed
of the bay, its sickle shape held by the land
and when we woke, we conceived our Achilles.