Quarantine

In the worst hour of the worst season
Of the worst year of a 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 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
In the worst hour of the worst season
Of the worst year of a 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 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 woman
And in which darkness it can best be proved

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

In the worst hour of the worst season
Of the worst year of a whole people
A man set out from the workhouse with his wife
He was walking they were walking – north
North, north, north, north