Seamus Heaney(b. 1939)
Punishment
I can feel the tug
of the halter at the nape
of h e r neck, the wind
on h e r naked front.
It blows h e r nipples
to a m b e r beads,
it shakes the frail rigging
of h e r ribs.
I can see h e r drowned
body in the bog,
the weighing stone,
the floating rods and boughs.
U n d e r which at first
she was a barked sapling
that is dug up
oak-bone, brain-firkin: 0-small cask
her shaved h e a d
like a stubble of black corn,
her blindfold a soiled bandage,
her noose a ring
to store
the memories of love.
Little adulteress,
before they p u n i s h e d you
you were flaxen-haired,
undernourished, and your
tar-black face was beautiful.
My poor scapegoat,
I almost love you
but would have cast, I know,
the stones of silence.
I am the artful voyeur
of your brain's exposed
and darkened combs,4
your muscles' webbing
a n d all your n u m b e r e d bones:
I w h o have stood d u m b
w h e n your betraying sisters,
cauled5 in tar,
wept by the railings,
w h o would connive
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and tribal, intimate revenge.