Weeks And Weeks 1963 Poem by Terry Collett

The young priest
sat in the chair.

Martha sat opposite
across the desk.

The priest gazed
at the girl,
uncomfortable
with a young girl;
he wished the old priest
could have been there.

So how can I help?
He said,
looking away
from Martha,
eyeing the desk top.

Martha stared at the priest;
he was the young one,
white as flour,
in his black gown
and white collar.

I want to be a nun,
she said.

A nun?
He said,
lifting his eyes
to gaze at her.

Martha looked up
at the large crucifix
on the wall
above the priest.

The Crucified's eyes
half closed or half open
depending how you looked,
she mused.

What sort of nun?
The priest said.

An enclosed nun,
Martha said,
not looking away
from the Crucified.

The priest gazed at the girl
whose eyes were staring
above his head.

Do you think you
have a vocation?
He asked.

The nails
in the Crucified's hands
were rusty or painted
a dirty brown.

Of course,
Martha said,
I wouldn't be here
otherwise would I.

The priest looked
above his head
and saw the huge crucifix
which the girl
was staring at.

Have you spoken
to any one else about this?
The priest said.

I spoke to one
of the nuns and she said
to come see you,
Martha said.

The priest lowered his eyes
to the girl: she seemed
serious if a little odd.

I see,
he said,
have you decided
on which order
you wish to join?

Martha looked away
from the plaster Christ:
not yet maybe the Bendictines,
she said,
staring at the priest
and at his watery blue eyes.

Maybe you should pray
and ask Our Lord
for guidance,
the priest said.

I do,
Martha said,
taking in a slight blemish
in the priest's cheeks.

I been talking to Him,
she said,
for weeks and weeks.