.
Imperious, proud, when the Lady died,
She willed to the Irish a painted nude,
A Renoir of generous and lucent flesh.
It was her desire to be fleshly rude.
In Dublin, the prim official mocked:
"Take it and bury this obscene lust
In Joyce's grave in Switzerland.
Gin the traitor his dream of dust."
She lies with Joyce in the exile's wind,
Molly's Yes singing through damp graves
The promise of warm flesh for bitter bones,
A Renoir for Ireland as winter raves.
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