“I Am Stretched On Your Grave” by Sinead O’Connor
On the day of the battle you said to me, in simple command under goshawk’s convocation: when you get there do not cross.
But I followed the landscape down through an animal’s lingual gesture. Bodily. Without allegiance. Through the last grove’s blackened pine I forged cinder’s undercurrent across the gorge. I lay my hands on the soldier’s ribs and in unison smooth out the jaundice oak leaves where his body lay—as if each impression might circulate bell, book and candle.
The pious grit their teeth—wade through the 17th-century walls behind me—every time I hear any song. And I always say, ‘Sinead would sing that so much better’… It’s a fact.
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