Sister Doreen
paced up and down the rows
between our desks,
yardstick in her
grasp, ready to rap
the knuckles of our hands,
should we dare to grin or
sneer, fail to pray Hail Mary
without the reverence
She was due.
Behind
the school at recess,
we surmise
she’s never had sex,
been a frump since she was
eight, wouldn’t know a
condom from a balloon.
She greets us back
with a snarl,
ever-scanning for
mockery,
bellowing wipe that stupid
smirk
off your face!
And that’s the moment
when you did it,
took a napkin from your
pocket,
dragged it across
your curling lips,
your mouth a rigid
line, like the pews
at Sunday Mass,
or the cross above
the Confessional,
in which you’ll enter
the day before,
offer remorse
to the forgiving
Priest,
who’d met the Sister
years ago, when she was
a postulant,
one who took a binder
to her breasts,
a practice
she began at
13 years, after her
father began to fondle
her in the dark,
shoved his hand
between her legs,
in front of Mary
cloaked in blue
upon the wall,
who later offered
solace, a place
where she was shielded
from the touch,
where the only
naked man
she’d ever see
was nailed above her head,
in wood and then in
gold around her neck,
unable to lift a finger
in the night.
Andreas Gripp
July 29, 2023
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