I’m supposed to be writing a list of sins
for my Holy Week confession,
so I can float weightless, pure
into the Great Three Days and Eastertide,
but instead I fuss, re-ordering my study,
filling a vase with water,
trimming pink and white carnations,
indulging in private vices in my head.
From the window, I can see the other ordinands
talking together on benches, walking across the lawn.
Their sins, I’m sure, are smooth as milky enamel:
frustration, impatience, desire for time alone.
That kind of thing makes confessors
shake their head and fold their hands
in dainty reassurance—That’s no sin at all—
and everyone goes home smug.
But my transgressions crackle iridescent,
myriad tiles, explosions of colour, impossible to list,
a dark mosaic of oil spill—and the trouble is,
I like each one too much to give it up.
Don’t get me wrong: once I’m absolved,
I’ll swim as grateful as I ought in the cleansing water,
drifting a happy penitent,
forgiven, transformed.
But oh, that glitter beneath me—
that texture at the bottom of the pool—
the way those sharp-edged pieces feel
against the soft soles of my feet—
