Crannog / No - Crannóg

Crannóg No 7 winter 2004
Even with my half closed eye, I can see the egg stains
on your soutane. Snuff. And snot too.
‘When you die, Maria, you’ll have earned God’s
forgiveness.’
Forgiveness!
After forty years of plucking weeds
in blazing sun on this hellish island.
I wasn’t the only whore in Athens forced to kill a
customer.
And it wasn’t even the pain that made me draw the
knife.
No. It was when he pissed and shat all over the feather
bed I’d saved a year to buy.
If he hadn’t been an Elder, my sentence would never
have been so terrible.
Oh, why didn’t they jail me in Athens instead of
condemning me to a lifetime of plucking weeds in
blazing sun on this hellish island?
‘Oh, Stefan if only you’d docked that day, we could have
sailed away to Santa Rea.’
‘It’s a pity you’re not able to attend church anymore,
Maria.’
‘Yes, Father Alexandro.’
Pity my arse. To listen to your rantings and have all
those hooded crows gathered outside to jeer as I pass
by.
Shit, my head’s going round and round. If you don’t go
now, you’ll see me drench the horta.’
.
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