Doubt
April 6 2009


Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
Which is how it always begins
in this dim dusty cubicle,
smelling of floor wax
and musty robes.
Although if you had skipped confessing
your trivial transgressions,
heaven would hardly have noticed.

The man on the other side sounds bored;
an act of charity
some Hail Mary’s
to purify your soul,
sending you out into the world
clear.

You think of the hearts unburdened here,
the choked-up voices
the tears.
The years of terrible secrets
crammed-in to this airless space,
safe
from human hearing.

The man
across the thin partition
shoulders everything
— the trifling sins
and minor omissions,
the unbearable weight
of misery
and vice.
He prays for faith,
not forgiveness.
He confesses doubt,
but hears no reassurance.
And straining harder every day
he listens, glancing up,
for absolution
for benediction
for love.