She Couldn't Win 1960 Poem by Terry Collett

Fay sat in the classroom
and watched
as the plump nun
swayed back and forth
in front of the blackboard.

The nun stopped and stared
at the children in the class.

Who can tell me
the Seven Deadly Sins?
She asked,
peering at the front row.

There was silence.

Fay wanted to put up
her hand, but didn't want
to be seen as a know-it-all,
so she sat there
her arm anxious
to shoot up.

No one?
The nun said frowning,
surely one of you
knows at least one of them.

The children looked
at the desks or at each other,
none looked at the nun.

Nearly all of you
are committing one
of them right now
it seems,
the nun said.

Lust?
said a boy
at the back
who sat straight faced,
but bubbling inside
to burst into laughter.

The nun stared at him:
that is one,
anyone else have a sin?

Fay put up
her hand and arm:
Pride Sister Mary?
She said.

The nun looked at her:
That is two,
anyone else
have a sin to mention?

A girl with black hair
in bunches and glasses
said: Greed Sister Mary?

The nun nodded her head:
Four more sins;
anyone else have a notion?

There's envy,
the boy said
who had spoken earlier.

Fay knew them all,
but was unsure
about saying it:
Gluttony is another,
Fay said,
looking at her hands
in her lap.

Three more,
the nun said,
swaying back
and forward on her toes
like swaying penguin.

Wrath is one,
a boy
with spiky hair said.

One more,
the nun said,
eyeing the class
like a warrior
before battle.

Pride,
a girl said
behind Fay.

The nun nodded:
That is right;
now tomorrow
I expect each
one of you
to know them all,
the nun said.

Fay knew them all
so she wasn't worried
about that,
but then she worried
because it sounded
like pride
and she thought:
now I have
committed
a sin of pride:
having knowledge
or not,
she couldn't win.