It took two years to get permission
to see my father. I begin to imagine
my first words with him. Beautiful day
and he will answer, Did you see the light
ripple on the stone wall? But it rains
on my first visit. I say, I wish the rain
would stop. And he replies,
It always has. He’s wearing a blue johnny
my mother made from one of his old shirts.
There is a cross above his bed,
a big wooden one with metal Jesus,
a touch of red paint on the wounds.
Dad’s been carving oak into a bowl
he has rubbed with linseed oil.
My habit does not scrape his floor.
My breasts are bridled by a blue gamp.
I am Sister Mary Sharon now.
It’s against the rules but for him
I lift my veil to show
wisps of my hair.
I have come from the high-ceilinged cloister.
In this tiny room
he seems so small to me.
