After Martha Had Gone 1963 Poem by Terry Collett

Martha's gone home,
Magdalene watches her go
from her bedroom window.

She got a kiss
nothing more
not from Martha,
unlike Mary
who was up for it.

Martha had been fascinated
by the crucifix
above Magdalene's bed,
had climbed on the bed
and touched
the Crucified's feet
(Magdalene had been tempted
to embrace Martha's legs,
but didn't.

Martha's out of sight;
the record player
is silent now,
the Billy Fury LP
is unmoving.

Wish Mary was here,
Magdalene muses,
feeling hot and bothered now;
two empty glasses
sit on the bedside table,
the ashtray has
cigarette butts lying there.

The sky is cloudless.

Her mother comes in
the front gate
carry shopping bags.

Magdalene tidies up the bed
and hides the glasses
under the bed,
and goes down the stairs.

Her mother is in the kitchen,
bags on the table.

What you been up to?
The mother says.

Nothing,
Martha was here,
Magdalene says.

What did she want?
The mother asks.

Talk and listen to music,
Magdalene says.

She's the one
who wants to be a nun
isn't she?

Yes so she says,
Magdalene says.

The mother puts
the shopping away;
Magdalene helps her,
wishing it had been Mary
in her bed
them at it.

The mother sighs
and sits in a chair:
put the kettle on
I need a drink.

Magdalene does
as she's told;
she thinks her mother at 42
is old.