"blaise" poems - Hello Poetry

Dawn breaks. Sliver of light through shutters, wakes Sister Blaise, stirs her from sleep. Bell rings. Chimes loud. She sits up, legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet, wooden floor. Coldness bites. Rubs arms, legs. Crosses herself with middle digit, in nomine Patris. Bright light through shutters slices into floor. Prayer said she rises from her bed. Thoughts race through her head. Drab night gown, grey, long. She walks to the enamel bowl, pours cold water, washes face and neck and hands. Et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Lets water run through fingers. Wash me whiter. The Christ on the wall hangs there in His silence. Picture of Christ on her desk, hands out stretched. She runs water through her fingers, wet, cold. Wash me, cleanse me. She dries her hands on the old white towel, rubbing dry fingers, hands, face and neck. Uncle used to. Pushes thoughts of him away, they slip back in place, eel like. Uncle used to touch. Bless me Father. She folds the towel, places it neatly at the foot of her bed. She removes the nightgown. Dresses in her habit. White and black. Mother said nothing. Silence and the turning of the head. Finger pressed against lips. Dressed, she sets about her cell. Tidying, sorting, bed making. Uncle used to touch her. For I have sinned. She opens the shutters, lets light in, opens the windows, fresh air, birdsong, slight breeze. Father used to beat. The Christ hanging from the cross on the wall is silent. Nailed hands, hands curled. She has kissed the nailed feet. Now she stares at the turned head, turned slightly to one side, crown of thorns, wood carved. Sister Clare is in the cloister. She watches her walk. She stops. Looks into the cloister Garth. Flowers growing, neat rows, large bushes. Mother said nothing. Beatings. Lies told about Uncle he said. Sent to bed, no supper. The sun is warm, light on head. She walks from the window and stands in front of the crucifix. His hands curled, nailed, old nails, pins. Feet one on top of the other, nailed in place. She kisses His feet. Presses soft lips. Uncle used to touch, said our secret, sin to tell, little girl. She presses lips to His feet. Mother weak, said nothing, dying now, cancer, pain, hurts. Father dead. Never make old bones he said. Proved right. She closes her eyes. Touches His legs, runs finger along. Stiff, cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never told again. Father displeased, the beating pleased. The bell rings again. Echoes along cloister. She crosses herself with middle digit. A bird sings. Wind moves branches by window, He calls, must leave, must go.

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May 9, 2014

May 9, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC

terry-collett

SISTER BLAISE BEFORE MATINS.

Dawn breaks. Sliver of light through shutters, wakes Sister Blaise, stirs her from sleep. Bell rings. Chimes loud. She sits up, legs over the side of the bed. Bare feet, wooden floor. Coldness bites. Rubs arms, legs. Crosses herself with middle digit, in nomine Patris. Bright light through shutters slices into floor. Prayer said she rises from her bed. Thoughts race through her head. Drab night gown, grey, long. She walks to the enamel bowl, pours cold water, washes face and neck and hands. Et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Lets water run through fingers. Wash me whiter. The Christ on the wall hangs there in His silence. Picture of Christ on her desk, hands out stretched. She runs water through her fingers, wet, cold. Wash me, cleanse me. She dries her hands on the old white towel, rubbing dry fingers, hands, face and neck. Uncle used to. Pushes thoughts of him away, they slip back in place, eel like. Uncle used to touch. Bless me Father. She folds the towel, places it neatly at the foot of her bed. She removes the nightgown. Dresses in her habit. White and black. Mother said nothing. Silence and the turning of the head. Finger pressed against lips. Dressed, she sets about her cell. Tidying, sorting, bed making. Uncle used to touch her. For I have sinned. She opens the shutters, lets light in, opens the windows, fresh air, birdsong, slight breeze. Father used to beat. The Christ hanging from the cross on the wall is silent. Nailed hands, hands curled. She has kissed the nailed feet. Now she stares at the turned head, turned slightly to one side, crown of thorns, wood carved. Sister Clare is in the cloister. She watches her walk. She stops. Looks into the cloister Garth. Flowers growing, neat rows, large bushes. Mother said nothing. Beatings. Lies told about Uncle he said. Sent to bed, no supper. The sun is warm, light on head. She walks from the window and stands in front of the crucifix. His hands curled, nailed, old nails, pins. Feet one on top of the other, nailed in place. She kisses His feet. Presses soft lips. Uncle used to touch, said our secret, sin to tell, little girl. She presses lips to His feet. Mother weak, said nothing, dying now, cancer, pain, hurts. Father dead. Never make old bones he said. Proved right. She closes her eyes. Touches His legs, runs finger along. Stiff, cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never told again. Father displeased, the beating pleased. The bell rings again. Echoes along cloister. She crosses herself with middle digit. A bird sings. Wind moves branches by window, He calls, must leave, must go.