We are sitting in a cabinet for confessional

It’s green and field shaped

Neither of us priests

But ordained in our own grassy ways

No wooden barrier between us

Only wrists and knees

It is open fire

I do not wonder if I’ll go to hell

But I hope you like me

Others do not speak of what we do in confessional

They do not bump heads and knock hands

Consecrated by the ritual of proximity

Admittance in our exchange

You hear me confess

You see my offering

I hope you like me

Not for what I am becoming

But in spite of it