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.