in the wicker confessional i lit a match
& the priest said, "no not here."
i am prone to drastic. not used to
a calm farewell to the truth.
once, i wrote suicide notes
on toilet paper & flushed them. another time
i scribbled a dead boy's phone number
on the back of my hand for days
until i worked up the courage
to call & leave a voicemail. there's nothing
heroic about the real real thing you mean to say.
soften the blow with fireworks or
tell god you are ready to fall in love again.
dear god, i am not interested in sin.
i want pleasure without the glint or
the barcode. in hell there is a very long
grocery store line & everyone is trying
to buy ice cream. we watch as it melts
onto the floor. some lick it up.
i'm not that scared of going to the worst place.
it can't be worse than admitting
how easy it was for me to fog machine
my way into a gender. who was the imprint
on the window? who walked her knees
down to the creek to practice meditation?
i'm sick with a captial "c." often i think
what about a do-over? then i think
no no no that would be somehow worse.
i don't hurt the priest. he's not even
really there. he's just a vestment
hanging on the back of a closet door.
the secret is i don't ever want to fully
recover from catholocism. what if
i need an excorsism? what if i decide
on gold? chalice? blood? it's best to keep
all avenues open. girl in the sacristy
lighting a match & snuffing it out
on her forehead. using bangs to cover
the singe. a mark is a sign you've been
trying too hard to be alive. have you noticed
clear-skin people are partically see-through?
that's because they've got one foot
out the door. there's no more door for me
so i shouldn't talk. i'm firmly in place.
or, at least, firmly enough.