Sister “C”


Sister Claire 

She was a nun,

And she was my teacher.

She had the most beautiful hands I’d ever seen,

Loved to play skipping,

Chewed gum

And wore a girdle.

When ever it bunched up,

 She’d go into the art supplies closet

And close the door-

The whole class could hear her

Tugging, adjusting

And muttering “For the love of god.”

She had milky eyes

A bosom meant for sailors

And the voice of a siren.

She prayed in Latin, French & English

And cussed in Italian once

When she dropped our history exams.

She swished when she walked

Blushed when she laughed

And whispered when she got really angry.

On the last day of school

She gave each one of us a tiny medal

With a pale blue bow

And hugged us one at a time.

I remember her habit felt crispy

Against my cheek

And she smelled like just ironed cotton.

Then she told us she’d been called back to Rome

And this was good-bye…

Even the boys cried.

I was 6 years old then,

And every time I think of how

Sure we all were

That she loved everyone of us

I find something, anything cotton

And iron it.

© Willow-Marie Power 2013