Confession of Incomprehension

I don’t get it. What’s the point? Climb onto a couch and talk
to a therapist if what you want is understanding.
Stress relief? Talk to a friend, relative, stranger. Or walk
around and talk to yourself. You know the story’s ending,
after all. Or forgiveness? Talk to whoever it was
you wronged, or talk to God. If you hurt someone, make it right.
If you can’t make it right for them, adopt it as your cause,
make it right for someone, at least. Whatever is the fight,
isn’t it between them and you, or you and God? Where is
a sacrament for the breakings we can’t forget? Guarded
against things done to us that shame us beyond forgiveness,
ashamed even to be ashamed. So, where this all started:
standing in a long line in a dark church, saying, “Father,
forgive me for I have sinned, but I don’t know why I’m here.”

Confession of Ignorance

I remember Bruce’s bedroom — a mass of boys, and me,
trying to be one of them, tough & smart. Then years later,
married to one of them, an apartment couch, and mostly
the same group of boys, now young men. Back then, I was straighter
than any of them, sitting stiffly by my new “husband”,
avoiding the sights that accompanied the scent of smoke,
delirium of lavender microdot. Accustomed
or not, I knew enough to flinch; expected the next poke,
the deep bruises, the fists. My fear, his calm. His sense of pride
in leaving pain with no marks, so no one would believe me.
He didn’t just hit me. He’d hit them, too, his friends. So, why’d
they stay? I couldn’t understand. Bruce’s mother told me,
“To keep you safe. They worried. Each one of those boys loved you.”
I had no idea. I didn’t know. I never knew.

Confession of Bemusement

When the bus finally comes, a half hour late,
our chilly group piles on into the crowd.
There’s a retired gent with his cane, midway
back. I used to chat with him. Like now, loud
conversations entertained those around.
Hadn’t seen him since he moved. He smiles. I smile.
Troublemaker, I think, fondly. He’d clowned
and teased, joked and poked. It’s been a while.
I cling tightly to the bar as the bus
turns corners, pulls into base. Folks hussle
to the entrance. He stands to leave, adjusts.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, muscles!
Where did those muscles come from? My eyes blink.
He sucks in his gut, walks by, and winks.

Confession of Disbelief

The elderly priest held his rosary
at his waist, looking down at it. He paused.
“I owe you,” he said, “an apology.”
That was unexpected! What could have caused
this? I was just a 20-year-old girl.
“I didn’t believe you,” he continued.
“I couldn’t. Your story made my head whirl.
I thought you made it up. We interviewed
everyone involved. The stories agreed.”
Eyes horrified, he finally looked at me.
“It was true. You … lived …?” He swayed like a reed.
“Oh, that’s alright.” I smiled at him gently.
“See, I never expected to survive.
Now, every day is a gift. I’m alive!”

Confession of a Single Mother

Someone very special once told me we have a duty
to bear only the children for whom we can provide care.
How’d you know?! But don’t think I was off shaking my bootie,
desperate for a piece of any action with pecs, nice hair.
I am neither the virgin mother or the slutty whore.
I was careful. Picked a nice boy. From a good family.
Our mothers knew each other. Met him at our church. Before
anything “happened” we talked, dated. Such a fantasy.
Call me naive, too young, a fool. Alright. I’ll grant you that.
At least I tried. And I’m still trying now. Don’t you tell me
it’ll be too hard, or I’m not strong enough. Don’t get at
me that way. I’ll decide if I’m strong enough, don’t you see?
Give me a break! I love this baby more than anything,
anything! Best “mistake” I ever made. My everything …

Confession of Killing

In hypothetical conversations
I always said I would kill, if needed.
A grim sense of purpose made me brazen.
Anyone who saw my face conceded,
and dropped it. Still, easier said than done,
and easiest when there’s no time to think.
When I think, I check puddles for earthworms
to rescue, scold small boys stoning a skink.
I also put out mouse poison, then pray
for the feral cats. Our dinner tonight,
a chicken breast, was bloody. Not O.K.,
I think, it must have happened while alive.
This morning, on the sink’s edge, a slug crept.
I watched, took a photograph, then drowned it.

Confession of Anger

Skin rough and smooth at the same time, it catches at
every imperfection, each irritation, swells
with righteous confidence, bruises itself, and that
is what rubs things raw, stiffening the thick lapels
with hot, sticky, sweet-smelling starch that saws away
at any exposed flesh, scoring a blurred pink line —
a welt, that demands and gets attention. So, bray
with harsh laughter. Did you get what you want? It’s fine?
Oh, no, it’s not. A welter of purpose focused
on the easy answer, behind which roils a fog
of misunderstood motivation unnoticed
and ignored. Is it time? Have a hair of the dog
that bit you. You look great, darling. Anger suits you.
So do welts. It’s time. You’re right, remember? Your due.

Confession of Illness

A stranger drops a comment on my blog.
Five hundred words, little punctuation,
studded with strange spellings, but I can grok
what he says. He’s sick. No explanation.
With something. It seems, with everything.
He practically included his entire
medical record — blood pressure, fainting,
head injury, flu, cough, pain. He’s on fire.
Convulsions. Concussion. What the doc said?
“Well, people do get colds.” “We think it’s flu.”
All the meds he is taking, all those meds.
Tests and more tests. Negative. False or true?
Who knows? He reels off dates & times, who cared
in the clinic. Why tell me? I think he’s scared.

Confession of Gender

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
People always seem to think I am like them, but
how can I be? There are so many of them! Cup
the feminine in one hand; clench weapons that cut
in the other. Play at mock battles with the boys;
at the quilting bee, chatter and stitch with the girls.
I’m not faking it, no pretense — both give me joys.
Do I love dragonflies or bees? Burls or pearls?
What am I? What am I? A rainbow reflection
from a prismatic sign, or an oil slick. Mist blurs
the moon’s edges. Cross the bridge in both directions.
Look into my smart mirror. Behind it brilliance whirs
and spins, unimagined, shifting. What will I be?
Neither fish nor fowl nor fair red meat, but all three.

Confession of Confusion

Every time I said “flowers” he thought I meant “sex.”
When he said “mouth” I thought “ears”. When he described sands
I saw him dragging, like a heavy ghost, his hands
and feet through a stinging wind with no ill effects,
sinking into someone else’s story. Perplex
me, that’s fine; tell me truths half-lie of wedding bands
fragile as dried seaweed, all those children unplanned,
duties dissolved into dust, blown away as specks.
Ask me if I’m alright. I always am; you’ve known.
There is a logic to arrivals, departures,
beginnings and ends. Really! Ask any juries
told to decide the case on evidence alone.
Best available evidence, says the doctor.
The priest? “… te absolvo a peccatis tuis.”