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(Okay, now, let’s see if, between this poet’s relatively peaceful errand running day and the probability of being maliciously awakened over and over again tonight, we can shake off our dread of this horrid cycle being permitted to continue forever ~ or until it does what it’s designed to do and would have successfully done to most long before now: drive her crazy ~ and offer something resembling actual poetic uplift, shall we?

In presenting this true tale from her late teens, the poet hastens to assure her readers that she has no more quarrel with the Catholic community than she has with any other. In her experience, they do more actual, boots-on-the-ground good works among the poor and dispossessed than all the denominations besides, put together.

All her life the poet has mixed ~ as, actually, also, did Jesus the Christ ~ with both rich and poor, respectable and disrespected, finding that every demographic, low and high, possesses both significant value and significant limitation.

Her takeaway is that we need to start putting one another down less and listening to, valuing and working with one another more.

But this poem isn’t trying to make any of those cases.

It’s just telling the story of a slice of life as seen through a pair of eyes which couldn’t be starrier: those of a very young poet)

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Recorded Reading (3:39): https://www.dropbox.com/s/os9543ckammht8a/Sister%20Helen%27s%20Kiss.mp3?dl=0

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Sister Helen’s Kiss

The Sisters called her “sister”
She was eighty five years old
And in her tiny body
Beat a heart of purest gold

I met her in my nineteenth year
Contracted to a nunnery
Which also for wee toddlers
A working daycare center be

Helen two live children had
And one, as well as those,
Who’d early passed away, some said
From a heroin overdose

For all the length of her long life
She dwelt old wild South Boston in
The dangers of that rowdy place
To tell you I could not begin

But just as she was used to doing
All her blessed earthly days
She went with calm and independence
In her same accustomed ways

Beginning every morning
Ere the sun came into view
With an over half-mile walk
Her beloved cathedral to

And then from there to work
Full time, and each and every day,
Leaving one more Sister
With a few more hours to pray

These women aren’t protected
By aught ecclesiastic Act
I know, because I typed up
Their annual business contract

With those in far off countries
Whom they have to answer to
Appalled is what I was
When that agreement came to view

Laypeople think that for
Their humble willing sacrifice
Of bows and bells and everything
That makes women’s existence nice

At least they do their work
Snug in the warm security
Provided for necessities
By husband Church they’ll be

Well, think again: These women
Bought their clothes and paid their rent
Financed corporate insurance
Just in case of accident

Provided for their transportation
Food and heat — then furthermore
If did not wish to be standing
Outside of their own front door

With access blocked to every small
Thing that might mean to them a home
Contracted were as well to send
A certain sum to Mother Rome…

It seemed to these two starry
Eyes most understandable
Such circumstances swiftly grow
Emotion’ally untenable

And sure enough, although it’s something
That I hate to say
The package did indeed affect
Many of them in just that way

Turning each into such a
Perfect collosal bitch
Those poor wee children must have felt
They faced instead some evil witch!

In poor South Boston, every Fall
The children’s noses runny grow
Which turn, then, into hacking coughs
With advent of the winter’s snow

Then all the miserable nuns
More miserable grow
As chapped and reddened noses
They ointment and they blow

But strange to say, yes strange to see,
Frail tiny wee Helen McNiff
Never even had to give
A single extra little sniff

For months we worked together
In such a tiny room
Any other friendship
Than one with her must doom

But started each day with a hug
And ended each in friendship’s bliss
That tiny lady, elderly
And I, this starry-eyed young miss

Through more than forty years between
That distant day and this
I bear the blessing on my cheek
Of Sister Helen’s kiss

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This poet is physically disabled. Public housing being insufficient to her medical and creative needs, she is presently living, in order to continue working, in her minivan, publishing all of her works using one thumb on the touch screen of her smartphone, surviving at an income of a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. She would treasure any donation you might care to offer ~ http://www.UgiftABLE.com ● #72D-31S.

Please be aware that it takes several days for the poet to be notified of contributions. International contributors please contact the poet via email or post a comment for the necessary numbers.

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