Listen to Kathryn Maris read this poem.
Kyrie eleison! I said it in the pub.
I said it to my bitter, then I said
it to my heart, with nothing not to dread:
my sins were great: I drank there with my love.
Kyrie iesu christe, God above
and me below, drinking at the Hog’s Head.
“So. Will you love me better when I’m dead?”
He knew it was no joke and didn’t laugh
but turned away to look at the TV.
(Arsenal was playing Everton.)
Another man was fixed upon the game
and held his hands together on his knee
and chanted and rebuked. But not my man,
who recognizes neither loss nor blame.
