After that business with the blackbird, Kevin
sore-shouldered from his mortifications—
the lent-long arms reach and supplications
in service of life’s mysteries and flights—
lay himself out, spread-eagled in paschal light,
cozy in a copse of alders, cones and catkins,
and slept the sleep of a child of God.
Waking to a woman fast astraddle him
in ways he’d never ere experienced
and sensing frenzy in his nether regions
so lovely that it must be mortal sin,
he strove against the ginger-haired Kathleen
pressing her private parts against his parts
whilst writhing midst her own deliriums,
the palms of her small hands warm to his heart,
like riding the tide of Love’s deep river,
groaning approval and grateful te deums—
a prayer her being made entirely.
Whereupon the monk woke to his senses
and grabbing the temptress by her attributes,
in righteous warp-spasms of rectitude,
tackled her into the lough’s chill waters,
the better to chasten, he thought, brute nature,
mighty as it was, please God; and that was that.
