The dark bight in the nave is broken only
By the candle flames, rows and rows
Blowing flickering lights that once …
I loved that echos
Of my feet bring me closer to the alter
Of my faith that is not my faith, a split
Hundreds of years old and still we go back.
I go back.
To that place
It had no cathedral, no stained glass, though
Stained hands were cheap. It wasn’t
Fancy, it wasn’t easy to kneel in those pews
In rows and watch and listen as the cop was
cleaned and passed along to only the select few up front.
A simple chaple for that school, a chaple that
Is not this place, that was not His place, at
Least not to me. That place was run by woman
that tradition said should have worm
black and covered their heads, but they didn’t.
They looked like teachers from the 1950’s in their
Bland business suits.
But still they were Sisters. Sister Student.
Sister Jone, Sister Anders
I left them at still a young age yet still I
come back. They blazed a trail in my psyche
feet wide, that refuses to go away and I still
go down it. It’s a trail of solid, packed earth
on which nothing grows.
Martin Write 