The Meeting

The approbation of my application. 
Signed and sealed, obviously,
by a secretary, an emissary. 
Untouched and unscanned by the  
eyes and hands 
of the man 
in high demand, the one,  
the legendary. 
I was due the honour of his company. 

I exchanged money for cheap day travel 
with red, trembling fingers 
on Christmas eve. 
I naively believed it was 
a reasonable time to meet 
and not at all strange.  
Cross country, in solitude. 
I changed on the train.  
I wetted my comb and scraped. 
Ponytailed and raw. 
My small breasts suppressed  
in airless vests 
in lapel and collar origami. 
This is how nuns should dress. 

The city buffeted me 
towards the lonely bright doorway 
of a back street scout hall. 
I sat in the cold foyer. 
The sky grew dark. 
I was asked to wait by a copper haired clerk. 
I fidgeted and tried not to look neglected. 
This was not what I expected. 
Only one interviewee 
waited before me and I swear 
he wasn’t a day over eighteen.
Delicate and unprotected 
in the lightest shirt I’ve ever seen. 
The static from my stockings 
on the plastic seat 
prickled and they wrinkled 
where my legs were too thin. 
The boy was called in. 

The light outside died 
as my entrails writhed 
and my nails grew sore. 
The red headed woman at the door nodded 
and saw me inside. 
Only when I was seated 
did it occur to me: 
I didn’t see the teenaged boy before me leave.  

The man at the desk was old 
older than is possible, I think 
and neat and shining with a sweetness 
akin to frightening grace. 
I couldn’t look at his face. 
He should have looked out of place 
in this worn-out hall, the walls 
shedding sugar paper and pins. 
“I was impressed with the letter you sent. 
So well presented.” 
He spoke like he meant it.  
I untensed a little bit 
and tried to focus on my mission. He said 
“Why are you meant for this position?” 
I reversed my eye’s aversion 
“I really love your work,” I blurted 
“I mean, sir, I’m converted  
and dedicated to your cause.” 
A pause. 
He looked at me in sympathy. 
He leaned forward in gentle conspiracy 
“I don’t think you believe that, young lady.” 
 I couldn’t reply. I tried.  
He damned me in the kindest voice. 
“There’ll be no need to re-apply.” 

It was done. 
I stepped, stunned, into the winter air. 
I was faintly aware 
Of the sound of a choir in the far off square. 
I was alone 
with no way of getting home 
and no way of getting better 
but he congratulated me on a well presented letter. 
He congratulated me on a well presented letter.