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.
