far memory
–Lucille Clifton1conventmy knees recall the pocketsworn into the stone floor,my hands, tracing againstthe wall their original name, rememberthe cold brush of brick, and the smellof the brick powdery and wetand the light finding its way inthrough the high bars.and also the sisters singingat matins, their sweet musicthe voice of the universe at peaceand the candles their light the lightat the beginning of creationand the wonderful simplicity of prayersmooth along the wooden beadsand certainly attended.2someone inside me remembersthat my knees must be hidden awaythat my hair must be shornso that vanity will not test methat my fingers are places of prayerand are holy that my body is promisedto something more certainthan myself3againborn in the year of waron the day of perpetual help.come from the houseof stillnessthrough the soft gateof a silent mother.come to a betraying father.come to a husband who would one dayrise and enter a holy house.come to wrestle with you again,passion, old disobedient friend,through the secular days and nightsof another life.4trying to understand this lifewho did i fail, whodid i cease to protectthat i should wake each morningfacing the cold north?perhaps there is a cartsomewhere in historyof children crying “sistersave us” as she walks away.the woman walks into my dreamsdragging her old habit.i turn from her, shivering,to begin another afternoonof rescue, rescue.5sinnermanhorizontal one eveningon the cold stone,my cross burning intomy breast, did i dreamthrough my veilof his fingers diggingand is this the dreamagain, him, collarlessover me, calling me backto the stones of this worldand my own whisperedhosanna?6karmathe habit is heavy.you feel its weightpulling around your anklesfor a hundred years.the broken vowshang against your breasts,each bead a wordthat beats you.even nowto hear the wordsdefendprotectgoodbyelost oraloneis to be washed in sorrow.and in this lifethere is no retreatno sanctuaryno whole abidingsister.7gloria mundiso knowing,what is known?that we carry our baggagein our cupped handswhen we burst throughthe waters of our mother.that some are bornand some are broughtto the glory of this world.that it is more difficultthan faithto serve only one callingone commitmentone devotionin one life.
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