Not The Confessional
I don't come holding a silver plate
piled high with off-white sin.
I want no incense or collared priest
to absolve or sentence me.
I am not penitent. I am pensive.
Webbed consciousness shivers as
I grasp amnesia's knot. Veins
swell. My vision rocks. I seek
dialogue, discourse with selves:
demons, saints, angels, whores.
Eucharistic parts suffocate,
fearing judgment, punishment.
Only blank pages, opened mouths
offer needed sanctuary, not
dark secrets in a Confessional.
I want no absolution in a dusty booth.
I taste the ecstasy of the vernacular Host.
These words are my communion.