Could that be my "Marissa" murdered there?
That mangled mess? It is too much to bear.
Yes, when I was a lad, I loved her so----
both of us adolescents, years ago:
we walked so much, that summer, on the shore
of Ireland's sea. That was, of course, before
her London trouble. She was beautiful
to look at, yet more wondrous in her soul:
she could see past my pock-marked ugliness
and awkward stance, and loved me nonetheless.
I gave her stockings---imports from a land
of silk: so sheer (except around the toes,
there--double woven), crimson as a rose.
She said she never had a gift so fine.
But, friend, I tell you this: the joy was mine
each time she wore them shoeless in the sand
(because she knew what thrill that was for me,
nor judged it as some foul anomaly).
Whoever did this to her, with so much
hatred, still did not---and can never---touch
or take that part of her she gladly gave
to me. My heart shall hold it, not her grave.
Speak not of some composure that forgives
this crime, nor patronize me with a smile.
I shall consider vengeance all the while
that smug Whitechapel Terrorist still lives.
