I was afraid of them,
the kind of fear that tastes
of stale milk.

A sour fear
that stayed with me
as I churned over
the convent playground.

A new friend-
Jenny, six years old.
One-step beside me
chattering away---little sparrow.

The nuns could not abide
sparrows
or anything unyoked
from a creaking guilt.
A sin they bound
like yellowed parchment
to their parched breasts.

How could we have known
about that dark triangle of theirs
that drove them to watch us
as if we were
small pink bombs?

One day our intimacies
were gleefully undressed
by a fervent bride of Christ.

Bottoms were lashed,
thrashed with an ecstatic zeal.

Afterwards
they made Jenny
confess her spilt milk-
but finding none
they simply curdled her
instead.














(C) Eric Ashford August 08