Sent off to boarding school <br />at twelve, with a pair of oxfords, <br />a pair of patents, my sterling <br />silver christening rosary <br />and two dozen name tags stitched <br />like drops of blood onto the collars <br />of starched blouses, I stare <br />down the hall, long and dim, <br />slippery from too many waxings. <br />Plaster statues of the holy family live <br />here, in cave-like niches, the Blessed Virgin, <br />her face soft and chalky, cheeks <br />powdered pink. Everything about her <br />is pliable; she is to be our model. <br />Joseph is nondescript, covered by <br />a long brown robe. The baby sleeps. <br />I eye the nuns, black and fluttery, <br />and my parents, in wool, with fur collars, <br />giddy with their new freedom. <br />I unpack my suitcase and survey <br />the territory. One iron bed, <br />one chest of drawers, one slender closet. <br />A crucifix pierces the white wall. <br />A dark trunk opens its jaws <br />to swallow my life.<br /><br />Geraldine Connolly<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/new-territory/
