Face in a
Night ShelterShe sat still as a rock,
While the noise
and bustle of the room
Foamed and broke around her.
The real stillness was
in her face,
Carved black ebony, beautiful;
Not just still, not just impassive
Frozen,
stone.
We had tossed tentative smiles at her,
Middle class bridge makers
And
they broke against that stone.
I thought of the mobility of faces and the words
we use:
Crumbling into tears;
Breaking into laughter;
Crinkling into
smiles;
And saw again that black, stone face
And thought of Novocain
Face
frozen against pain,
Unnatural, rocklike, uncomfortable
But not hurting.
And
I knew her fear of the end of numbness;
The agony of memory probing into nerves;
Remembering
being a street person
Moved and moved and moved again,
Garbage before authority's
broom.
Bone weary - without a corner or step or seat,
Wanting to stay, to
stop, to sleep.
Remembering being prey,
To those who had been made animals;
The
rapes, the beatings,
The pain and pain and pain;
Unthinkables, the un-remarkables,
Now
even the crinkle of a smile
Would crack the frozen numbness
And everything,
all of life,
Would hurt, like hell. Fr.
Paul Byrne OMI •
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