The Amateur Nun

In those times,
Under imprimatur of the parish and all holy things,
I was an amateur nun.
The sacrament of marriage was one I took seriously;
It permeated everything I did,
Like incense smoke from a swaying censer,
Part and parcel of my monochrome attire.

Kiss me, I would say, a little breathless,
Tilting my face up,
Doing my best to manufacture a rapture I did not feel,
As absent as my dreams.
Each Good Friday we would line up silently to kneel and kiss the cross--
In the face of such real suffering,
Such bone-deep love,
Such magnificent sacrifice,
I felt puny in my complaints, and hissed at myself to shut up and do my little part.

I was an amateur nun.
I raised a child up in the way he should go.
I went to work,
I came to bed,
I lay myself in offering as if I were the body and the blood,
But I was only wine and wafer,
Not blessed, available in any grocery store.

I wanted to be my family's Jordan,
But I was dammed,
An earnest, well-meaning trickle for thirteen years.

I needed a miracle.
My miracle came;
Seven years into my calling,
And too soon to take.

Irish women are half angel and half devil,
And have a keen race-memory about snakes.
We are as common as potatoes,
And as likely to ply the old magick as to take the veil.

Some nuns have green eyes,
Some are naturally gifted healers,
And some take male names as per the custom.
Have you heard what they say,
About nuns,
Sometimes?
What they say is true.

I found a catechism I could crave
At the tips of her fingers.
I found my One True Faith
Hip to hip with her, and I rose from my grave
For one glorious transforming day,
Then went back home
And did the laundry.

I was an amateur nun,
And I kept my calling til my calling was done;
But you know what they say about Irish women,
Some gone ginger, some gone black--
I grew my hair and unbound my heart;
I gave up my vows and will never turn back.
_______


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