I hoped the rolling sea of Inishmore
Would mush the memories of her convent,
Her face, her body, on the marbled shore;
That my kneeling naked, impotent, in caves
Would freeze my lusting for her innocence
And cool my psalm-mumbling lips that crave
To whisper in her hair, caress her forehead,
To kiss the pale shells of her eyelids
Cupping her sight towards the eunuch dead.
I pray with outstretched arms until they’re numb
I pray until the sense breaks into bits
And then I pray to Christ to make me dumb
Before I scream a curse to drown the wind,
Dying for my sweet bride who married Him.