Sin-Eating for Beginners
Come, press down a seat with me
in the clay. Let us start.
See how his table moans
and what a smörgåsbord of bad
is here. Fancy that oil-primed
cracked-crust hog’s back—
salty will, chargrilled—
frilly Sarsaparilla envy, lip-teasingly
spare—rebarbative tongue
pickled. Take a helping of desire’s
sauces con carne; a draught of mead
swirling with beaded ire, and spiked
with St Augustine’s wine of error—
ladle it. Then spoon out half-
mash of acedia, gone cool.
Ennui dripping. Lardy dhal.
Don’t omit soft bread of habit,
nor airy soufflé, omission’s very
self. Have Gorgonzola deceit,
white praline pride on the side.
No holding back now.
Let’s gorge on our grimy
picnic, this pretty potluck
finger food of sin; serve ourselves
and let him pass in peace.
fine parchment face
suddenly chantilly
lace his torso a doily
perforated twinkling
with sweet patient fungus
shiny maggot-
milled one old gold trinket slipped
between two ribs
his legs folded and cold
he too was somebody’s
honeybunch and heartleap
his jaw an ox-bone
his eyes full of lake
his burring voice booming out
bold songs like
john bro-own’s body
da-da da-da da da da
and john brown’s body (da-da da-da da da da)
a young woman undressed me and
five minutes later she undressed me again
ten minutes after that she undressed me
and again fifteen minutes later
by which time I was beginning to feel tender
her fingers were cool and her palms firm
as she disembarrassed me of one hot layer
after another, tweed, cotton, nylon, loosing
buttons and cuffs, unravelling ties
when she had been undressing me for a month
I dared to say, sideways, my mouth under the chest
of a pullover which she was easing over my head
with such skill and love that my adam’s apple
felt like it had been rolled in honey
and rubbed in oats, and my voice was grungy
and low, my skin somewhat shiny
and raw: muhuuhu muhuuhu ph ph ph hmmhu hm
she touched my lip with a shapely thumb
shhh, don’t fret her voice like jinxed june breezes
in lime leaves and then her voice like rills rushing over flint
and dazzling in sunlight we’ll get you undressed and then
we’ll see to that just a moment now and with no let-up still
she continues to undress me
A friend said my convent-name sounded like a boat. Catherine, at first, in England, had notes of catharsis, of being emptied then restored, like a padded Queen Anne armchair. After name-dysmorphia—birth-name out of kilter with scuffed knees and Beryl-the-Peril manners—I liked the teenage family monikers, Gel, Ger, Germolene; my new nephew’s faltering French-&-Sunday-teatime-sounding Jelladeen: these soothed through storms. Enid Lareg, reversed nom de plume, sent me off round high seas & treasure islands. I held back Brigid, second baptismal name, for years, then took refuge in its stolid Celticness—Mary of the Gael, or ‘Gaol’ as I imagined. GB, my signature, felt functional and true, redolent of Olympic swimming teams and medical abbreviations. On holiday, I hitchhiked with my sister to the city for grown-up cakes and coffee, and recognised myself in the Galway Baking Company. At Confirmation, Catherine slinked in—unliked and unbidden, a seeming waste of a new name... Strange, then, to opt for her again as an adult, when a new name—like a password—was required for entry to the novitiate: once more she came unbidden, the cathartic one, reconfirmed. Not long behind bars, before Clothing, a bereavement had me ransacking crooked novitiate library shelves for comfort, unearthed finally in one of the Italian Catherines whose teachings on Purgatory deflected the pain like an arm pinched to dull a toothache. Going down the stairs, prior to the naming ceremony, I met an elderly Mother, who asked—laconic—‘Siena?’, to which I countered ‘Genoa’, suppressing a half-urge to share my father’s story of when he’d asked a passerby in Athlone ‘D’y’know a cafe?’ & been tickled to receive directions to the very Genoa Cafe (‘just over the bridge’). An abrupt shift of continent and a spell as Spanish Heraldine, hollow herald, before I was anchored as Catalina. It was good enough and I had a fierce leper-licking patron I was happy to sail a decade by.
