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Sister Elizabeth, the plump nun, clothed in black and white, thumbs rosary beads, prayer on each bead, finger holding, thumb pressing onward. Sancta Maria audi nos, or so she hopes, eyes closed, kneeling, knees numb. Feels warmth of sun through cell window, dawn comes, birds heard, breathes in stale air, night sleep. Her Bridegroom comes, at Mass, He will enter her, on her tongue He will come, the sacred host. She senses wood under thumb, smoothed by prayer and use. Her mother spanked her as a child for her mispronunciation of the Pater Noster, remembers, word perfect, word upon word, tongue to tell, libra nos a malo, yes, that she recalls. And that priest, the old one, his touch where he ought to to, never told,
did not relate, who'd believe? The thumb pushes another bead, another prayer hits the air, sunlight through window shines, warms , comforts, brings kiss of maybe of her Groom. Her cell is not her prison, but her resting place for sleep or study, her own, but not so termed, Bridal room.