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Storms in Childhood
1.
We are neat rows
of hard steel framed beds
weight of bodies in the dark,
heads turned sideways
installed for the night.
Retinas burn
torchlight; body counts,
darkness hangs, numbers,
pain solitude.
we closed off
shaped sanctuary walls
where nothing could
touch us.
2.
Outside the thick bluestone walls
exposed branches sway like whips,
lash the air,
and the shriek
of the wind penetrates
through the gaps in the dormitory
echos, a voice,
the pious priest administering
the thick lash,
in tempo, bruising,
the dreadful sound suppressed, drowned
by the noise of the storm.
3.
In night’s shrill cry
large dark hands lift to winds,
wielded somber, menacing.
Stubborn, mute,
pale pallor wept within the dormitory;
outside snarled savage anger.
His voice ominous,
tangible, sliced through night,
‘It’s finished’.
A child
frayed whipped stripped bare,
rises to follow behind the priest.
Angry, silent,
irritable priestly hands stir air;
furious night whistles tempestuous sacraments,
4.
Lightning
flashes on the window,
the priest, hand on the door instructs,
as jagged surges flare against
the black frame.
In the room, centered -
two aged wooden chairs pushed together,
inflexible, stark in the yellow glow
my bed tonight.
I would be left alone,
cold seeping through frayed pajamas
alone in wretchedness, held by the night.
He would have it so.
5.
My god
how this bruising pulsates.
It aches in me.
Choked by furies, thunder, lightening,
quivering fear weaves to a fleshed heart,
through the long night.
In the morning,
gusty winds blow, I look at mountain walls
through frosty panes, alone,
cut off from streets I have not walked.
Bells chime.
6.
In shadows, dawn awakens;
rich shallow fog veils remnants of night;
the sun captured, blunted by overcast skies.
I turn away.
A sea of faces lift,
gaze toward me, beds stripped, undressed,
lights glow; we shiver in the drafty room;
floorboards creak, footsteps approach, and
a new priest enters, scowls.
‘Line up! Showers! Move!’
Water falls,
rolls over flesh; life is a sluice of sensations,
tepid water varies, hot and cold,
chilly air slaps you, crimson chilblains sting.
Showered, I grab a towel, dry myself,
sprint to the spartan dormitory.
7.
It’s a frenzied hive,
industriously preparing for inspection;
at the foot of our beds, eyes front, we stand,
avoid glancing at his scrutiny,
locker tidy; bedcovers straight-neat...strip it again?
How many times must we make a bed?
Anxiously,
we await his instructions.
‘Chapel, ten minutes.’
8.
In single file,
I walked along glistening floorboards;
young hands continually toil, burnish them,
and the old stairwell,
down to the basement chapel.
It’s beautiful; leadlight windows,
ground level color stunted by first light.
The altar is draped in purity;
multi-hued wall tapestries hang,
and cover arched-brickwork.
Silently,
we take our places.
9.
The priest stood, somber...
in white-gold fluid garments, a crucifix before him,
his heavy hands lift in supplication before the altar—
higher, his voice rises in tempo, as he prays
for our salvation.
I did not know his god.
I did not know his god.
In the beginning, I did not know.
10.
As a child
I never knew the moon
that birthed me,
or the storm that
sired me;
Sometimes I saw them
figments in my child’s mind;
dreams which caused
pain.
11.
… And now
I look at pictures
sent by a brother that I never
knew.
fragments from my unfilled
childhood.
It is all
I had ever known.
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