Some of Us Even/If Only/Don't

When I was seven, a nun said,
"Some of us even get our picture in the paper
wearing shorts.'
When I was nine, a nun said,
"Some of us even whistle while we are walking
home from school.'
When I was twelve, one said,
"Don't tie your hair back, you look like
a washerwoman'
and
"If only your name were Mary Diane, not
Diane Mary'
and — when I changed the calendar from March
to April —
"Pin the page back. And don't touch what you
don't understand.'
(It was April.)
Our names, our voices, our clothes, our hair,
our knowledge that time, left to itself, goes
forwards…
Moved by fear, spite, lack, you tried to change
these things.
Memory sweeps the crypt, dusts small moments
of dying.
Her hair is hidden, she wears black, is voiceless,
nameless;
the watch tied to her wrist runs backwards.