The Last Inventory in the House of the Magdalenes
We wore our hard hats,
and followed orders and the foreman’s
broad shrug onto
the debris field. The corrugated skirt
of the sheet-metal
door groaned under his weight and we slipped
into the dark. In
the single-bulb gloom of the cavernous hall
we paused beneath signs
of attrition and the Virgin’s stone halo.
Blueprints lay strewn
on the floor. Sledgehammers and saws,
a prepacked egg
sandwich, spirit-levels to even out a new aspect
on the world. We descended
the steps, treading our way along
damp corridors and
the tight-lipped catacombs. In the labyrinth’s
rib we worked
quietly, whispering as we filtered and combed
and sifted. We
were the reclaimers of forbidden things; the women
who came to mark
down in neat ledgers the items of a life—
her kiss-lock bag,
fragments of a letter from her mother, old Kodak
photographs of a
family outing to the park. Our arms could not
bear the load, how
precious they were. Not relics or artefacts,
but the umbilical
threads of her essence gleaned from the vaults.
Later, we walked
through rooms; doors gaped on the edge,
webs brushed our faces,
ceiling fittings dripped stalactites. In fear
of shock we paused
at windows to look past the bars, to glimpse
the women who
never left the laundry’s boundary. We came back
on shards of glass
into a nimbus of pure sunlight, cradling
the echoes of the women, who they used to be, like babes in arms.
Note: The last Magdalene Laundry, where unmarried
mothers in Ireland were incarcerated, closed in 1996.


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