A Hymn to Sr. Machete

(to be sung in plain chant)

In deference to the Christian ethos of this school
we will teach of the resurrections
that in the fullness of time you will come to believe
there is life after Sr. Machete ~

Those she has made feel microscopic will grow to overshadow her.
Those she has ridiculed in front of workmen in the corridor, will be acclaimed by many.
Those she has made feel cheap by insinuations, will be held dear by the multitude.
Those she has written off as useless, will write words of wit and wisdom.
Those she has assigned to the scrap heap, will scale the highest mountain.
Those she has cast into the wilderness, will bring life to the deserts.
Those the butt of her wrath should remember, she suffers more than you do.
Those from whom she has removed all hope, shall receive the holy spirit.

Amen.
Save us from women like Sr. Machete.
Save us from women like Sr. Machete.

Blest are the late comers, they are early for tomorrow.
Blest are those mesmerised by the C.A.O. There is light at the end of the tunnel.
Blest are those who survive her.
Blest are those who see through her.
Blest are those she has slandered who turn and marvel at her cheek.
Blest are the meek, who have learned to contain their power, for the hour will come when they see the end
of Sr. Machete,
for ever and ever.
Amen.

Remember the resurrection,
There is life after Sr. Machete.
There is life after Sr. Machete.
There is life after Sr. Machete.

My Mother brings me gifts

Day by day
she gives me
snatches of conversations
held in waves
of sound for ever,
the words remembered,

and day by day
she dredges up the jokes
passed on
with years of telling,
the script secure, she's happy
when I laugh,

and everyday
presents me,
from the drift of all forgotten,
with pictures of her father
lighting candle after candle
and her mother, pouring water
from a glass carafe.

She leaves me
day by day
these gifts,
precious salvage
of a life lost
in a sea of forgetfulness.

Holy Thursday

Not for the liturgical significance
or any high or holy motive
but for shame, I washed her feet.

For the sake of the chiropodist's
olfactory senses as he studied the corn.
I washed her feet.

The corn for which, had they an inkling
of its powers, the meteorological office
would have bartered eye teeth.

The corn under whose pressure
she has become
geriatric actress of the year. Jesus.

I washed her feet, and I prayed
that this woman would be taken from me.

Silent Mother

Your world is shrinking
your body shrivelled
you hold my hand.

I long for words,
words you'll never say
words that hold the power
of unutterable thoughts
lodged in the tissue
in the cells.

You leave me a legacy of secrets.
I will scatter them,
with every last word I can gather.
Shatter this silence profound.

^

Biography

Christine Broe lives in Dublin and is a member of the Dublin Writers Workshop. Her work has appeared in numerous periodicals and magazines, including Poetry Ireland Review, InCognito, The Stinging Fly, Women's Work, Extended Wings and Riposte. Her work has also been broadcast on RTE Radio. She is the winner of the Kerry International Summer School Poetry Competition