paper confessional

i build a confessional from
old newsprint & cardboard.
bless it with juniper smoke &
a bowl of raspberries. coax a coyote
from the fields to serve as a priest.
i used to want to be a holy person.
when i was in elementary school
i thought often about becoming
a nun as a way to escape the prospect 
of marriage. it seemed much less
terrifying than having to sit inside
a man's mouth until he died. 
there are different kinds of confession.
there are confessions for yourself.
confessions for "god" & confessions
truly offered to someone else. i remember
the "god" kind. it was a performance.
i emptied my pockets of low-level sins.
kept the big ones in a lock box
& hoped they would be forgiven
along with the rest. i try to avoid
confessions for myself. those are always
too much to handle. why not just
park on the side of the highway 
& buy some fireworks? i confessed once
to my mother that i was using her credit card
for years without her knowing. 
there was a priest in the corner of the telephone
taking notes. i hope in the coming years
to reduce my need to confess anything. 
it is better to live like a coyote & save
all the truth for the velvet dark. call out 
like a cracked star. that is why they make
wonderful priests. the coyote hears
my confession & gives me penance. 
he says, "run as far as you can from 
your own mouth" & starts counting
down from three.