In five months’ time the red-faced nun will strike him
as pretty, but at this moment of revelation
she is the cruel arm of an imprescriptible God.
She brings the aluminum-edged ruler down hard
on his knuckles. The unblinking anger in her eyes
is unspoiled by New Testament sadness,
her small bosom heaves as she composes herself,
now available for the possible tears the beating might earn.
The revelation is, of course, that pain is bearable, is Jesus-
making, is nothing to be feared. He knows he has failed
the lesson, but squeezes out a dry croak of gratitude
and begs her, silently, to salt his wounds.
‘Little bull, head like a rock.’
By end of term her blush and swell, her honeyed flash
and gleaming ruler will be no match for his pride,
his thanks, his tearlessness.