The Decision
Milan, 1945
When I told him, my father said that I
Had always been peculiar. What could I say,
Jesus? Like You, I’m missing the desire
To mount a firm defence. Christmas is coming –
Peace Christmas! – and all I want is to be
A little loved, a little needed, until
I disappear. Does that sound too dramatic?
I always liked plays. Before the war, when we
Went down to Sicily to spend some time
With Mother’s family, my favourite part was the
Puppet shows. I never wanted boys to
Fight for me but oh! I was excited when
The gallant knight Rinaldo, in shining
Silver armour and a helmet of pure gold,
Turned his manly fury on Orlando –
His worthy rival for the love and favour
Of Angelica. I longed, Lord, to be
Swift in mortal combat and serene in
Everlasting love – to be Rinaldo and
For You to be Rinaldo, willing to die
To win my heart as I was willing to
Win yours with every injury that I could
Lovingly inflict upon my body.
Gaetana kept my secret. I showed her how
To use a needle to transpierce my pink
And tender underarms. I knelt in joy and
Pain, my arms stretched out like Yours upon the
Holy Cross. I grew, and even my little
Sister couldn’t know the things I did to
Make my soul and flesh awaken to Your love –
The nights I stayed awake, looking at
The image of Your sweet and suffering
Face as I plucked out the hairs that grew between
My legs. But those were the sacrifices
Of a girl, and now I am the woman who
Will be forever Yours, who will be
Forever with my sisters in the Spirit –
The needed one, standing a little bit
Apart, but keeping Your precious brides safe.
I am no one now – Antonietta –
But when I finish my exams, I’ll become
Somebody else. A someone who can love
You like a knight would. Somebody you deserve.
Sisterhood
Rome, 1947
Dearest sister, little one, Gaetana:
In just a month I take my temporary
Vows. I wonder if they’ll change me more than
I have changed already. Now when it’s time for
Recreation, I don’t, as I did last
September, look around to find a friend.
That sort of thing – close attachments – aren’t how
We conduct ourselves. I walk in the garden
And if I tire, I sit on a bench and
Look at the bougainvillea creeping up the
Convent walls, trying to enter through some
Sister’s window and make her see its beauty.
But it’s not in bloom anymore (neither are
Most of the Sisters). I miss you, sweet Gaetana.
I miss the summer days in Sicily –
You were so small. You loved to hold my hand.
Alex Rettie is a Canadian poet, songwriter, and book reviewer with poetry appearing in Queer Toronto, One Art, and 433.