10: Spirituality - Oct 2021

An Ode To Angry Women

 In my all girls catholic school, we were neat, we were quiet, we were pretty. 
We moved soundlessly through halls, fingers pressed to lips.
We spoke when spoken to, and sang of a Friday-
the elderly prayed for our purity, I prayed for a decent Irish test.
We played violins (as tightly strung as we would become)
But it never sounded right.
Now, I am barely a woman, I am struggling to find my voice.
It is sequestered away behind a wall of hushed fingers, of names used in vain, 
it was never on the booklist.
Our prayers came too little too late for Savita and the septic tanks: atavism on atavism on atavism.
But each day within me there is a rage which rises with a vengeance, with all the 
dissonance of untuned violins.
In my all girls catholic school, we were pretty, we were quiet, we were neat. 
Now we are angry women, this song is not complete.

-Jenny Thompson

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