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Poem

I’d put on the gray drab uniform,
catch the yellow bus, while
other villagers made a pilgrimage
to Violet Avenue Elementary School,
and us parochials would be driven
to the now closed St. Peters.

This is where I first knelt, steepled hands,
had a sense of the transcendent,
always a good Catholic girl.

I did not know otherwise. I knew habits
that, at least for some, were untouchable.
They probably were initially the knuckle smackers
but apparently someone cracked their knuckles
and said - no more of that.

Saddle shoes and lacy socks and such.
We’d often be in chapel in meditation,
learning the Lord’s Prayer. Thankful.

I’d not thought of it before but Drugen
was also on our beat. He’d threatened
my brother like a bully Catholic thug.
Over what, I have no idea.

Did I think it cool, that when we all landed
on the village playground, that a fight
was pursued? Did I think that my brother
would be tough? The former tough broke
my brother’s arm and I’d try to chase him;
mad was I, at both myself and this bully guy.

In that dull, gray, pleated jumper, lessons
are memorized, Jesus before our eyes.
Don’t we all feel pitiable in His light?

That’s the exclamation point! No sense
going round and round, but we do nonetheless.

Still pocket knees underneath, steeple hands
fold, raised, praising the one who has pity,
saves - me from sin, from myself; wipes tears,
fears, and embarrassments away. Lights up -

Christmas days and Easter morns. I adore Christ.

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