BernadetteSuch poverty of imagination and means!
Who stood a chance there? Look at them.
Mother in her shroud and father in his cap
their long winter's nap.
They are the walking, long suffering, living dead.
Lost without candle or map in the years of our weariness.
Exhausted, insomniac--poor wretches.
Without knowledge or marrow for the stone soup
without resources of any sort--
How will they prepare a place for her?
Starting girl, deprived one, urchin.
She's dying in the local Catholic school
Our Lady of Sorrows aptly named.
Place of no fish, place of relentless boredom, and insult.
Those girls hide her glasses, call her names
They mock her, the locket she wears, her frizzy hair
Throw stones, those girls. Rip pages from her books.
Oh, why that? Anything but that.
The stale crusts of their unkindness.
She is resolute. She believes she deflects their greatest cruelties--
Does not incorporate them. Is somehow above it all.
She is wrong of course.
It's easy to see that now--After the fact.
Poetry by Ashe
Read 133 times
Written on 2017-11-10 at 01:11
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