Benedict stands
in the porter's lodge,
circa 1969, waiting
for Dom Tyler the monk,
to bring the large key
to open the church for Matins.

Dawn, cold air, smell of age
and incense and baking of bread.
He remembers Sonia,
the domestic at the home,
who pushed him to the bed
of old Mr Gillam and said
in her soft Italian,
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
then in her broken English said,
I could have *** with you here.

Another joined Benedict
in the porter’s lodge,
some holy-Joe type,
breviary under arm,
starved gaze.
The silence,
the smell,
the chill.
Dom Tyler opens the door
from the cloister
and rattles the key,
smiles, but does not
break the Grand Silence.

He takes them out
into the morning air,
opens up the church.

Lights are on, monks
are assembling, bell rings,
Benedict takes a seat
on the side pew,
the other sits
more in front.

The old monk who last time
talked to Benedict
of monastic life,
slides by, his body aged,
his habit like a shroud.

How he escaped Sonia,
how he managed
to get away unmolested,
he finds it hard to fathom,
except the promise
of the cinema,
the seats at the back,
the kisses and touching,
all in the dark,
the flashing images
of the film going on.

Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
he utters under-breath.
The Latin of early morning
Matins begins, he dismisses
her image and her words.

The holy-Joe opens his breviary
in the semi dark, his finger
turning pages, muttering,
his head nodding
to an invisible prayer.

Benedict imagines Sonia
creeping into the pew,
muttering Italian,
sitting there.

The rosary slips
between fingers,
pushed by thumb,
prayers said, saying,

praying. The nun
feels cramp in her
thigh, ache of knee.
Bell to ring, light

through crack in
shutters, seeps.
Like that time in
Paris. Young then,

bells from some
church, he saying,
we must visit the
Sacre Coeur. Did,

too, later, their hands
holding, thoughts
of love. That thin
sliver of light through

cracks in that shutter.
He beside her, body
warm, hands folded
between his thighs,

prayer like. Pater
Noster, thumb moves
beads, skin on wood.
And he said, Paris is

built on the bones of
the dead, he looking
straight into her eyes,
dark eyes, pools of

smooth liquid passion.
The bell rings, Matins,
she thumbs away the
last bead, prayers said,

on flight to her God.
Knees ache, thigh crampy,
she rubs to ease. He
rubbed like that, her

thigh, his hands, warm
and slowly. Rubs slowly
now, she and her hand,
to ease. Pain, what is

it for? Questions, answers,
always there. Coinage,
pain, to pay back, debt
for sins, hers, others,

here, in Purgatory. She
ceases to rub, puts rosary
down, lets it hang from
her belt as she walks from

her cell(room) along passage,
down stairs, not to rush, said
Sister Hugh, not to rush.
She holds up the hem so

as not to rub. Into the cloister,
early morning light just
about to come over the
high walls. Chill, touches,

hands, fingers, bend, open,
bend. He showed her this
trick with a coin, his hand
open, the coin there, then

he closed and opened, and
it had gone, vanished, had
mouth open, and he laughed.
Never did show how was

done, have faith, he said
laughing. The cloister, walls
high, church tower, red bricks,
flower garden around below

the walls. Silence. She learnt
that, not easy being a woman,
tongue still, interior silence,
also, Sister Josephine said,

inner silence. Harder to keep,
the inner voice hushed. She
passes the statue of Our Lady,
flowers, prayer papers, pieces,

tucked in crannies, under flower,
vases. Santa Maria audi nos.
He was coming to her, took
her in his arms and kissed her

lips, that cold morning after
the party, Paris, art, music,
it was all there. She enters
the church, puts fingers into

stoup, blessed water, makes
sigh of cross from head to
breast to breast. Sunlight seeps
through glass windows, stone

flag floor, cold, shiny, smooth.
His lips on hers, flesh on flesh,
tongue touching tongue. Long
ago, best forget, let it go. She

sits in her choir stall, takes up
breviary, thumbs through pages.
Prayer pieces of paper, many
requests sent. This one's mother

has cancer, deadly, her prayers
requested for recovery. Not
impossible, faith says so. But
she doubts, always the doubt.

She'll pray, ask, request, ask
God, for supplicants request,
but God knows best. He sees all.
Knows all. Knows me, she

thinks, better than I know myself.
Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said,
and he said it,too. He in his
pyjamas, so ****, uttering the

Descartes, hands open. I think,
there, I am, he said, I am,(naked)
therefore, I think. He laughed.
Other nuns enter, take their place

in choir stalls, sound of sandals
on wood, books being opened,
prayers whispered. Bells ring,
Mother Abbess, enters, all lower

head. Where did he go after
having *** with you? she never
did know, not then, some things
best not known. O Lord open

my lips. Shut down my thoughts.
She makes the sign of the cross.
Finger, *******, from
forehead to breast to breast.

Smells, air, fresh, stale, bodies,
old wood and stone, she standing,
praying, all together, all alone.

The bloom of the cut rose
leaks into the water glass.
She fixes breakfast.
I sit thereabouts waiting.
I trouble my coffee with a spoon.
Her slippers scuff softly on the floor.
Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes.
I rub my homely morning face.
The finger of a tree taps the glass.
It will not be admitted
with the pale, newborn light.
The world already goes its way.
It minds if we are slow to follow.
The street grumbles at my well-used robe.
Matins bells predict a running out.
We keep our peace
longer than we should.