School, Thirty Years On
by John Grey
Less threatening,
it almost cowers.
A few blocks of tiny classrooms.
Desks all carved up,
chairs a sorry fit -
surely this is where
learning goes to die.
And here's room 14.
No more nuns.
They've been eradicated
like bats in an attic.
Did Sister Mary Clark
really pitch chalk
at chatterers
from behind that desk?
Only crucified Jesus remains,
no birth, no teaching, no ascension,
just the suffering.
Walls peel paint.
A spider creeps across the ceiling.
I open a desk drawer.
No implements of torture,
merely yellowing forms
for official diocese business.
There's nothing to face down here.
The years give all their weight
to irrelevance.
Did I tremble before
the snarling repertoire
of the self-proclaimed Sister in Christ?
Did I scratch my head
when the isosceles triangle
surfaced on that dusty blackboard?
Were my knees really rubbed raw
by chain gang kneeling?
No trauma, no pain, no nightmare.
You just can't teach memory anything.