In A Convent
She was left there
Hoping grace would ensue
But what actually happened
Was that the ways of the nuns
Became her ways and although
She was but a small child
The folds of their habits
And the medieval cut of their gowns
Patterned upon her psyche and became
Mother to her.
Their cooking resembled not
At all the culinary transport she once rode
Flavors that were now fading
As though they might have been merely
Imagined. There were no longer dumplings
Or pimentos in the fricassee
No butter floating in the risotto
No warm bread, no pots of tea at all.
Only tomatoes straight from the vast
Sexton cans. And wide noodles.
(A dish she concocts still, to see if it holds
The power yet to bring back particular scents...
Singular sounds and their damp echoes)
There was life-size mystery
In the statues that lined the old stone walls
In the glass eyes of Michael The Archangel
As he pierced the flesh of Satan
Writhing below. There was oddity
In the round body of The Infant
Of Prague as he stood doing not
Much in his golden crown
And his lace robes and his doll-like
Lack of expression. There were
Rows and rows of little beds
And little chests and little chairs
And the breath of hundreds of girls
Moving slightly the tight air inside
A dark and static dormitory.
Nowadays her children
And people not her children
Ask why she is the way
She is. The question seems
Untoward. The whole world
Seems always to be moving several
Flights ahead of what she was taught
To expect. Nunnish, said one almost
Husband as he packed his bags
Although the way she's lived her life
Is far too fast for the eyes and ears
Of women in black serge who used to chant
In Latin. Nunnish, though, is not the worst
Thing they could call her.
Tiny voices call her Nana
Their liquid eyes watching her every
Step, the silk of her skirts womanly
As she climbs their winding stairs
The steady sound of her conversation
Lulling them to sleep. She knows
What memories are forming. She tries
To be fluid, herself for them.
She holds them in her lap as she was not
Often held. She listens to their small words
And has learned to cherish
What she is just beginning
To understand
Copyright ~ 1998 SEB San Francisco
