Four Nuns

I always seemed to be

In a liminal space

With the Four Nuns

Who taught me at St. Anne’s

Sister Carla is my first-grade teacher.

I am 7

She has those thick calves and ankles

That all Catholic nuns seem to have

When my first tooth comes out,

I wrap it in a single Kleenex tissue.

I write her initials “S.C” on top

In black, felt-tip ink

And give it to Sister Carla first thing the next morning.

Sister Lorraine and Sister Elizabeth were my sixth-grade teachers.

I am 12.

Sister Lorraine left halfway through the year.

I was lost in first-felt love with her.

Maybe it was because she had once taught Tug McGraw,

New York Met relief pitcher and hero of the 1973 New York Mets.

What I project onto Jesus, Mary and Joseph

Is returned through feelings overwhelming and oceanic.

What do I do?

Where do I put it?

I know nothing. I feel everything.

I write to Sister Lorraine often after she leaves.

The distance between heaven and hell is wide.

I hate Sister Elizabeth.

Her brow is always furrowed.

She never smiles.

I resist her.

Due to my bad conduct,

I am sent home with a blue subpoena cards.

That my parents have to sign.

I have to stay 30 minutes after school as my penance.

Soon, my dad doesn’t even sign the card.

I hate Sister Elizabeth.

Sister Carolyn is my 8th grade teacher.

I am 14.

She’s so oak-tree big that we call her Sister Mary Elephant behind her back.

Her voice booms when she says to us.

“You have more Gaul than Cesar”

The lunch monitor brings me before her.

I have accidentally hit Alan Kilber in the head with a rock.

I think she is going to kill me.

I burst into tears.

She wraps her arms around me.

She brings me close to her chest.

I’ll never forget the scent of her freshly scrubbed aura.

If I saw Sister Carolyn today. I would burst into tears.

I always seemed to be

In a liminal space

With the Four Nuns

Who taught me at St. Anne’s