Category Archives: Confession

Confession Series, 2012 #NaPoWriMo #30in30

April 1: Confession of a Kiss

April 2: Confession of Confusion

April 3: Confession of Gender

April 4: Confession of a Time Traveler

April 5: Confession of Constraint

April 6: Confession of Illness

April 7: Confession of Continuity

April 8: Confession by Proxy

April 9: Confession by Compulsion

April 10: Confession of Anger

April 11: Confession of Bewilderment

April 12: Confession of Weakness

April 13: Confession of Awe

April 14: Confession of Procrastination

April 15: Confession of Connection

April 16: Confession of Killing

April 17: Confession of a Single Mother

April 18: Confession of Flooding

April 19: Confession of Incompetence

April 20: Confession of Success

April 21: Confession of Breaking

April 22: Confession of the Moon

April 23: Confessing the Ride Home

April 24: Confessions of Women

April 25: Confession of Disbelief

April 26: Confession of Bemusement

April 27: Confession of Inadequacy

April 28: Confession of Confessions

April 29: Confession of Ignorance

April 30: Confession of Incomprehension

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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 Confessions

Confessions curl within confessions.
Some so sheer they are almost invisible
and speaking them changes nothing,
except that little whisper of silence
inside, where something used to speak.

Some are so vivid they paint your skin
with stories and blood, each line swelling
then subsiding, only to swell up again
each time the story is told, each time
the confession makes itself new again.

Each time the confession breaks itself
open again, it breaks you open, breaks
the unwilling witness who wanted nothing
but not to know. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
I would tell you anything, everything.

Confession of Inadequacy

Hack, hack, hack,
Hack, hack, hack.

He coughs. And coughs.
Sometimes
he doubles over
coughing,
and can’t stop.

Hack, hack, hack,
Hack, hack, hack.

Sometimes
while coughing
he’ll press his hand
against his neck,
or above his sternum.
I imagine
the sharp pain,
the taste of blood.

Hack, hack, hack,
Hack, hack, hack.

I’ve brought the meds,
water to take them;
bought more cough drops,
cough syrup, candies;
made tea, rice,
warm milk with honey.

I ask a question,
he just looks at me.
If he’s feeling good
he’ll roll his eyes.
Then close them.
Resting.

Hack, hack, hack,
Hack, hack, hack.

Hack, hack, hack,
Hack, hack, hack.

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!”