*

the nuns frowned at me
a wet blanked on the upward
holy smoke of prayer
.
God would no speak
to little girls another
door slammed

.
on its squeaky hinges
not sure which sound
was more painful

 .

.
I had bought for the occasion
a dark gentle wool kilt – I felt I was
in for something important

.
each thread of  that wool
received my tears, the sweat
of my hands grief stricken

.
it kept its dark hue for long
was kept in a wardrobe
enough stains on it

.

.