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Ann Sansom

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Confirmation

In honour of His Grace, you had us on our knees for weeks,
‘a blessing on this visit and please god no silliness’.

Run ragged with dusters, shouted at for holey plimsolls,
threatened with expulsion, some broke down, distraught

in the branches of the forsythia arranging, or, black bright with Brasso,
muttered in the trophy cupboard, ‘he’d better be worth it the bastard’.

We slaumed silver paint on the refectory radiator, lugged planks
to make an altar in the gym, ‘what’s up with the table we always have?

What miracle’s he going to perform on this, godforgiveus?’
But we were whispering by then, disappointed by the almighty

but holding our breath when He drew up. We queued and bobbed
to kiss his glove, got te absolvoed, took the slap to strengthen us.

Amen. Friday night: Roy Orbison invited Kath McMahon
to his dressing room at the Odeon, Bo Diddley’s drummer

got Jacinta Malley’s phone number, Gerry Marsden’s roadie
instructed, I forget who it was, on the needs of the elderly

balding purple silky shirty not so godly nor entirely manly, but here
and cocky and think yourself lucky. Obedience. We knew our place.

Thank you, Sister Mary Frances.

 

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