Biddies

Clinging hard to life

with shrill knuckles of rosaries,

in coats like bruises

they prayed

through pinched lips

and plastic teeth.

 

Hail Mary.

 

The biddies,

my dad called them,

familiar harridans,

banshee widows

who attached themselves,

symbiotic,

to the Church and Father,

their new gentleman friend,

the kind

who expects them there, 

though he seems annoyed

by everything

they do.

Save the flowers.

 

Full of grace.

 

Plath-like moons:

dark frocks and a perpetual air

of mourning.

And each morning,

mass cards, clutch bags,

 

The Lord is with thee.

 

they would stand in the Lady Chapel,

fierce, hard eyes

inspecting the Mass,

demanding subjugation,

mortification and communion.

They never missed a day.

 

Blessed art thou amongst women.

 

The real hard core

wore veils and rattled

like medicine bottles.

They beat dry breasts.

It seemed a contest

between themselves and the priest

as to who would last the longest:

 

him, transient and male,

blown by the Bishop’s whim;

them, constant as rock,

stubbornly refusing to die.

 

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb,

Jesus.