“It’s okay, Sister Frances,” Seana says. “He’s a family friend.”
“He’s Dad’s special friend,” Ciaran clarifies.
The nun looks at you with a special brand of suspicion normally reserved for prison convicts and the homeless.
Basically, do not openly enjoy anything / she cannot do. Do not seem pleased / this list is shorter and more ridiculous. She will be carrying / the weight for as long as this marriage lasts, /
The green rippling ribbons of light in the sky look like the swirling skirts of dancing Valkyries. The moon shines, waning, but it’s still large enough to see the birch grove and my unborn sister’s tree that Father dedicated to the gods for her. The three-colored cord hangs from its boughs. I hung it there to dry after I dyed it, just as Old Aud directed, according to her dream.
I imagined looking down at my fingers to find
they were feathers. I have been that useless.
I have felt the moon beating on our roof,
the eras are deep vaults, peeking and seeping beyond.
And the ridge line is the skyline is pure water.
Through thirty-six years as a general surgeon at New York Episcopal Hospital—during which she extracted over two thousand gallbladders, fifteen hundred appendixes, scores of thyroid glands, three miles of small bowel, and eighty-four foreign bodies, including a tie clip left behind by a colleague—Dr. Emma Inkstable had grown increasingly skeptical of human weakness.