OLD DAYS.

A WOMAN REFLECT ON HER SCHOOLDAYS.

If you don’t stop the talking
McBride I’ll take the ruler

To your palms said Sister
Winifred heaving her bulk

From the seat from where
She had sat facing the class.

The other girls sat stiff stifling
Giggles as Maggie McBride

Sat struck dumb the half
Finished sentence hanging in

The air like the old nun’s farts.
The nun waddled slowly down

The aisle between desks and
Girls towards the offending girl’s

Desk at the back each footstep
Taking its toll on her breath.

Maggie sips her glass of white
Wine reflecting back on the

Punishment to her pride and
Hands as the old nun’s ruler

Whacked down hard on her
Young girl’s skin. As if to reflect

On her hands and skin now she
Looks down at the hand empty

Of glass. Lined and worn by work
And time no scars of ruler remain

Just memory of the stinging pain.
Gone now the old nun. Stuffed

In some home for the demented.
Some place outside of Tipperary

Or so she’d heard. Maggie empties
Her glass. Better the ruler across

The palms than the cane across
The arse as the boys had from

Brother Branigan those harsh
Years back. She lights up her

Cigarette as she deep reflects.
The ghosts of Eire in her dreams.

The boys and girls of those days
Grown better or worse in their

Lives and ways. She inhales the
Smoke long and deep and closes

The tired eyes for a little lost sleep.