Sister Jane’s Shoes

Sister Jane wore men’s shoes,
black leather oxfords shaped like hams,
not the slender, fishlike lace-ups
with chunky block-heels the other nuns wore, 
letting them walk with grace, toes pointed front, 
dark veils drifting behind. No,
 
Sister Jane walked like a man, 
feet splayed outward, the echo of her stride 
loudly declared by shoes my father could have worn 
to his New York office. She passed between 
the rows of seventh-graders with confidence, 
leaning over to check our homework, 
unaware that we were staring at her shoes.
 
We had traced her passage down
the polished corridors of Holy Angels
to the buffed wooden floor of our classroom,
warning us of her impending arrival,
letting us scatter back to our desks
to sit upright, prim as inkwells, for her.
 
When we girls acted out the Last Supper,
we took the men’s parts without question.
We, the Twelve Apostles, were allowed to keep 
our scuffed saddle shoes on, pretending our feet 
were bare when Christ himself (played by 
the smartest girl in the class) washed them,
 
He who had made all things: our convent school,
the clumsy adolescents therein, uniformed and sexless,
the blackboards dusted with chalky erasers, 
the poetry memorized, state capitols studied,
the nuns themselves, encased in starched wimples,
and, best of all, Sister Jane’s shoes.