How long has it been since you sang for yourself, for someone else?

There is a confessional 
that I call my car windows--
when they spread open like 
firefly wings on the ride
to the room with 
my cast iron tea set still standing guard
over my end table. 
on the ride to the room with my incense
soot still smudged into
the carpet like ash Wednesday--
and to dust I will return
in the form of pencil shavings
and snicker doodle freckles
I was was born dust so 
I only return to confetti--
-- I drive the way that
I know without maps-- the way 
stamped with tire wheels 
into the backs of my wrists-- and
there are twenty-questions unanswered
and unasked those still rest
written in the
dotted yellow lines of
the roads that crawl like
centipedes or the snipped
ends of my mother's knitting--
only here do I tell God
how much I have done wrong--
I speak it aloud with the windows
rolled down to swallow my sins--
sift each offense through the
divine corn husks that are 
still hopeful about a long days
and still seal themselves in
sleeping bags when the night is
cold and tastes like autumn and caramel 
and death.
When they die they'll take my sins with
them and maybe they'll pass
them onto to God when they do.
I've never been a good daughter
to God or to my father who
held me like a loaf of banana bread
or my mother who could braid
my hair like Challah--
but I at least I can drive
a confessional and at least
I can sing about everything
I've done wrong and everything
I don't have an answer to 
just for the wind 
to wipe them away like a thumb
clearing incense soot from
my cheek bones and 
putting it on my forehead
as a reminder.