"My Last Confession"
I learned to say confession before
I knew the word named guilt.
Every Saturday I’d line up
with the others in pious respect
or at least as much as a child
of eight can show
while waiting to enter
the small, curtained box
of the confessional,
the sliding screen sounding
like a squeegee across silk
ready to imprint
each and every thought
for I wanted to be good
and march straight on into heaven
right past purgatory, on past
all the stations of the cross
the seven seas, the frozen North
the numberless space
the deepest blue
the wings
the wings
one folded over the other.
© 2007 Teresa White
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