It must have been a Friday I could hear
The top-floor typist’s thunder and the beer
That you had brought in cases hurt my head.
I’d sent the pillows flying from my bed,
I hugged my knees together and I gasped
The dangling telephone receiver rasped
Like someone in a dream who cannot stop
For breath or logic till his victim drop
To darkness and the sheets. I must have slept.
But still could hear my father who had kept
Your guilty presents but cut off my hair.
He whispers that he really doesn’t care
If I am your kept woman all my life.
Or ruin your two children and your wife.
But my dishonour makes him drunk.
Of course
I’ll tell the court the truth for his divorce.
I walk through snow into St. Patrick’s yard.
Black nuns with glasses smile and stand on guard
Before a bulkhead in a bank of snow,
Whose charred doors open, as good people go
Inside by twos to the confessor. One
Must have a friend to enter there, but none
Is friendless in this crowd, and the nuns smile.
I stand aside and marvel; for a white
The winter sun is pleasant and it warms
My heart with love for others, but the swarms
Of penitents have dwindled. I begin
To cry and ask God’s pardon of our sin.
Where are you? You were with me and are gone.
All the forgiven couples hurry on
To dinner and their nights, and none will stop.
I run about in circles till I drop
Against a padlocked bulkhead in a yard
Where faces redden and the snow is hard.
No comments:
Post a Comment