QuarantineIn the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of the whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife
He was walking-they were both walking-north
She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up .
He lifted her and put her on his back
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived .
In the morning they were both found dead .
Of cold . Of hunger . Of the toxins of a whole history .
But her feet were held against his breastbone .
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her .
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold .
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body .
There is only time for this merciless inventory :
Their death together in the winter of 1847 .
Also what they suffered . How they lived .
And what there is between a man and a woman .
And in which darkness it can best be proven .
Eavan Boland this is a really nice poem that i came across since a long while .
for lit students , it's recognisable as the unseen poetry practice assignment .
;melissa
