BURN LIKE FIRES.

A NUN IN AN ENCLOSED CONVENT IN 1950S

You bring the white mug
to your lips, black coffee
from the large urn in the
refectory settles there.

The light from the stained
glass window filters through
on the bench before you.

The office of Lauds in Latin
completed you stand in silence,
the grand silence, only the
movement of other nuns
entering or leaving the refectory.

One cuts a slice of bread
on the breadboard, another
coughs, another rattles her
rosary beads. Women together
being quiet, Father would
have said, impossible, unheard of.

She smiles to herself, although
thinking of one's past is not
encourage, one is dead to that,
Mistress of Novices had said.

The coffee is warming on a
cold day, her fingers welcome
the heat from the mug. John's
hands had warmed hers once
years ago, one winter on the way
home from school. You wonder
what John is doing now. A nun
sneezes loudly, distracts your
thoughts, thoughts of John
disappear like the magic at a party.

You sip the coffee, close your eyes.

Warmth along fingers. A nun tugs
at the sleeve of your black habit.

You open your eyes. She gestures
with her hands. You are to follow
her she indicates, her fingers are
like dancers. You nod and drain
the mug and take it to the kitchen
and wash it. She stands patiently
watching you. She walks on and
you follow. The sway of her habit
like a dark sea in a storm. Her body
shut out from the world, whatever
beauty she may have is hidden from
the eyes of men and their desires,
which Sister Luke said, burn like fires.