School Skirts and Secrets

Words by Anna Crowley

Did you go to Catholic all girls school too?
I can tell by the scars on your thigh.
Coverable by a modest skirt – I always did have a nun’s eye.

But now you seem so knowing and proud.
You wear short shorts and speak to me in your mother’s tongue.
Can you show me how?

Sometimes I wonder whether I should have stuck with the whole Catholicism thing.
But I could never get over the confession box – well get in it I suppose.
Pitch black, grovely male voice and ten Hail Mary’s – no thanks.

But maybe it wasn’t the box itself.
Maybe it was the secrecy mixed with the knowing.
I could never get the balance quite right.

Máiréad from down the road knows I have something dark and dirty to tell the priest
And I know the same of her.
But tomorrow when I pass her house, we will pretend we don’t.

And I’d rather scream.
I want to tell someone and for them to be a listener not a messenger
(I have my doubts about God, you see).

But maybe you could be my confession box?
Maybe you could be my listener?
And I the same to you, of course.

We could stay up all night
Divulging, whispering, giggling
Pretending it’s a sleepover / knowing it’s a sanctuary

And maybe you could look at my scars and I could look at yours.
Maybe you could speak to me in a language I don’t understand and I could reply in a language you don’t understand.
Maybe you can show me how