The Convent Park beneath My Window at the Hotel Charles
Snow hissing against the gate, the old
woman would wait in the dark under the numb-
lipped head on the pillar-come home, virgin
of Israel the nuns singing behind their far
high wall, and terror the peacocks crying back
from the catacombed park-she would wait
for the caretaker, his dog slouching at his side,
to open the gate so she could sit on a wrought-
iron bench, her bunched body burnished slowly
by the winter light, an eddy of pheasants around
her feet, soft stomachs soothing her swollen
ankles, the high husbandless chant of the nuns
finally fading before the screams of the
peacocks-the pain of waking with so many
eyes to the light: under my thin wool blanket
I'd lie, reluctant to rise, watching orbs
of light, juggler's balls, a volley of spin-
ning halos. Where did the nuns,
the birds go during the day while I scoured
porcelain tubs, answered bells, moved a mop
idly over long linoleum floors-did they
sleep? Though once, following three well-
dressed ladies I sat in the cold plaster parlor
of the convent, waited for a face to appear
behind the grill as from another country, and
was caught by the quizzical eyes-to know
where one does not belong is a promise of sorts-
that was afternoon, though in that windowless
room, like the inside of a clock case, who would
know? Each night the park was locked, each
night the peacocks would dance, each night
the old lady was found among the soft clamor
of wings and led to the gate, where the care-
taker would lift the chain carefully, as if
it were a dress from his wife's shoulders and
she still loved him, and he would put that
old woman out into the other larger night.
Structure
37 lines · 2 stanzas