We were friends
who wore serge uniforms
starched white collars
oxfords and hose.
We walked in silence
from classroom to chapel
single file
orderly as notebooks
tabbed for
geometry poetry
and Aquinas
practicing etiquette
on salmon croquettes
at noon
conjugating
Latin verbs
with smooth pink lips.
Behind glass doors
on library shelves
Teresa of Avila
shouldered Byron
and the Summa lay open
on a sewing table
in the next room.
We were a fortress
guarded by angels.
Their sharp-tipped
metal spears
fenced the narrow oval
where we walked
to say the rosary in May
with black-robed women
who dressed their souls
in gorgeous clothes
only God could see.
They didn't know
what romance lay
in the way
they smoothed their veils
like long black hair
when they knelt to pray.
All our teachers
were not nuns.
There was one
whose perfume
lingered in the hall
White Shoulders.
Aphrodite
wandering
a cloister.
Senior year
dancing through
a sea of music
in the gym
every curl in place
holding ourselves
a bit stiffly
inhaling
Old Spice
humming "Blue Moon"
across the room
I saw you
taking off your shoes
thin shoulder straps
slipping down your arm.
A boy with Italian hair
stuck the sandals
in his pockets.
On the balcony
watching you
gray-eyed
Sister Catherine
smiled
remembering
the nets she tore
on her mad swim
to God.
amo amas amat
We who spoke the language
of nuns and angels
wore our innocence
like flowers
smiling at each other
across the dance floor
dreamers
believing life would keep
all its promises.
My friend, have you wakened
in a green place?
Do you still dance barefoot?
smb
My work reflects growing up Catholic.
ACADEMY GIRLS is about my high school years at Loretto Academy in Chicago.