I used to think nice girls didn’t get
ordained, or want to, anyway.
My friends confirmed this.

Besides, I liked my little waist,
blonde waves, the prettiness
of fitting in, my power to make

strong men well up by singing Bach.
Nice girls went on the stage;
we lived in liberated times.

But prayer’s invitation lapped
at my fingertips, the voice called out
like water dripping on a stone,

pooling, gathering pressure.
And at the laying on of hands,
the bishop’s words broke like a flood:

Send down the Holy Spirit
on your servant
for the work of a priest

and all around me fathers and mothers
reached out to touch my shoulders
and my head. I held my breath

until my palms had been inscribed
with crosses, pressed with holy oil,
and came up gasping, sobbed for joy.