By Eavan Boland
Sex and history. And skin and bone.
And the oppression of Sunday afternoon.
Bells called the faithful to devotion.
I was still at school and on my own.
And walked and walked and sheltered from the rain.
The patriot was made of drenched stone.
His lips were still speaking. The gun
he held had just killed someone.
I looked up. And looked at him again.
He stared past me without recognition.
I moved my lips and wondered how the rain
would taste if my tongue were made of stone.
And wished it was. And whispered so that no one
could hear it but him. Make me a heroine.