Winters in Bruges were a monochrome
        of brown and gray, as were the huge
             wrought iron radiators of the nunnery.

I believed the banging North winds came
        to die in those pipes—I was eight then,
             ugly, awkward and shy.

Nuns slid on the granite halls, hands
        in black tunnels of serge. Soon, dawn would cast
             its light through the stained-glass of the chancel.

I longed for that moment, when the hyacinth cape
        of the Virgin bloomed, and the cheeks of Jesus
             blushed as from a sinful dream.

My uniform itched. Knitted socks stopped
        an inch under the knee, flannel skirts
             half an inch above. My thighs were

chapped from rubbing on benches and stiff sheets.
        At 5:45, we stood at the Chapel doors,
             in shivering rows of three.

I was cold, always cold during those interminable
        Catholic winters. Mother Marguerite was late
             that day, and the radiator banged next to me.

I lifted my skirt, jumped, and straddled it—
        raw thighs against lukewarm metal.
                Annabelle pointed I’ll tell on you!

Judith whispered You’ll be punished!
        The door opened—I froze—like a mad
                magpie, Mother Superior’s cornet

flapped in my face. Get off there!
        Immediately! she croaked.
                Forgive me, Mother, I dared, but…why?

Her knotted fingers were ice on my wrist.
        It gives…ideas, she said. I didn’t look
                at the virgin’s cape that day, or at Jesus blushing:

I couldn’t figure out what Mother Superior meant.
        Years later, in the back of a black Peugeot,
                I understood it: It was forbidden, hard, warm.