In Front Of Us, A Sister
I never saw her face, just
a block of white and off-white,
and her cloak never
moved and her rosary never
clinked, just a voice to me,
an Alleluia, an Our Father,
an articulate and cutting
Nicene Creed. During communion,
I caught her face,
a silhouette of it, the chin burrowed
into a white cloak, the inkling
of a white hair line, wrinkles
stringing out across her forehead
that loosened when she sang.
And I couldn’t tell if her skin was soft
or if she had freckles or if her eyes
were blue or brown or green.
I did know how she knelt,
a disciplined stance on a square cut
wood block, her elbows always humble,
tucked close to her, her hands trying to
close into prayer, but too arthritic these days,
so instead she held her Bible between her hands,
the fingers curling flush around the cover,
the bottoms of her palms cupping the spine,
her slight wrists resting on her cleric,
her pointer fingers struggling upwards.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
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