Father Louis' Nose Job A soliloquy after The Sign of Jonas

National Catholic Reporter, Oct 13, 2000 by Matthew Brennan

   --in the hospital again, where there's
   no odor of sanctity. Fumes of isopropyl,
   not incense, fill the air of every room.
   Still, nurses wear white gauze masks
   and sterile walls distract the appetite.

   Here in the world I reject the senses.
   At ten, Dr. Roser begins to trim inches
   of bone and membrane from the septum
   inside my bulbous Picasso nez. As he prunes
   my cupiditas, blood blossoms everywhere.

   A novice nurse turns green as snot and flees
   the room, renouncing my flesh. Yet Sister Liz
   holds fast, both fingers rosary beads and mops
   my brow with a handkerchief, as if I'd carried
   my own cross from Gethsemane's garden.

   Next thing I know they trundle my bed
   into the hall and a whiff of salvation wafts
   over me; I lean on my left elbow like a guest
   at Caesar's evening banquet, my pulped proboscis
   aiming toward the cafeteria kitchen. Later,

   I dream of feasting on pungent loaves and fishes.
   When I wake to winter light, I retreat to an empty,
   cloistered room, and on Father Osborn's Underwood
   transform twenty unleavened sheets of paper
   into the ending of Bread in the Wilderness.

Matthew Brennan Terre Haute, Ind.