An Idol Progression Poem by Michael Ó Domhnaill

I sifted your memory under

so that if the grains of pining loss

are swept in a certain

way by adept crafty dream hands


Your face will appear,

Your apparent face will appear.


Your marble-smooth gray

eyes will emerge

from beneath those grains,

which always irritate

at the most inopportune moments

in another's embrace.


As my longing is at its end,

Almost satisfied in another's flesh,

As I taste smooth flesh it is alien…


Your face is uncloaked,

Flashes in my gaze

And as my new lover's

passion, heated love's reverie

of me inside and without her

is an alien violence

done to your memory;


I grieve in ecstacy.


My longing will remain

A blight on my ethos and eros.

Your eyes, your lips

Your blonde hair,

The contours of your face

will immaculately torture

my moments;

This is everpresent

And you remain.


Give my regards to your husband

be he a phantom

Or figment of your flesh.