The old nun

by Justin Hollis

The old nun dragged me through the church graveyard by my beard:  I was eleven years old.  The mud rose up to our knees.  “They will pull us down to hell,” she cried.  But I think she was just mad her new boots were ruined.  “She’ll work your knuckles good with that old ruler of hers,” my guardian angel whispered, but he’s just somebody’s dusty Christmas tree topper.  By New Year’s Eve he’ll be bottoms-up in Uncle Lawrence’s beer, with his gauze skirts over his head, the moon rising from in between his legs:  Uncle, rocking back on his haunches, howling, scratching at the fleas behind his ears.