Confession

Confession

Mean brass spikes

 on a black candle stand

are sunk like talons

in translucent icing

too deep to pierce my votive light

Tallow trickles hot,

entombing fingers as I tip the candle

lit from another

To pour foundations

and fix it down in prayer

Susurrant whispers

beseech the blessed virgin

Whose succour, being well-behaved,

I felt I need not seek

Perhaps relief from the bullying

and tyrannical teachers, oh

and for the plight of those sock-for-glove,

crisps-for-dinner, exploded woollens,

pumps in winter, no bus-fare,

no Saturday pictures, no lucky-bag waifs

So badly off,

they thought we were rich

cos I was sent to school wearing ties

Yes, I’d pray for them

But was it sacrilege -

- even among the plywood chairs

in the new-build church

To bring the names of mates

into the rhetoric of the lord

Speed-praying -

("Nay far son ho’ gho’ ’men") -

was frowned upon

and silence was the order; even

bowed head and barely tremulous lip

was suspected skiving

So breathy sibilance

and supplicant pose,

purport to implore...

Actually taking less time

than it takes to converse

with grandparents

Genuflecting and crossing themselves with thumbs,

you could spot the priestly altar boys

Hip with latin and holy environs

some even hung about in dress under the porch

where grown-ups smoked and nattered

Into confessional aftermath

of penance we’re compelled to go

No-one just walked away

having nothing to report

Teachers presumed it impossible

that any five-year-olds

had not sworn or fornicated, killed or coveted

since last week

(fat chance when ‘He’ was watching all the time)

Could we lie

and say we sinned, then next time

beg forgiveness for lying?

And old Mrs Dunn

who ne’ry boo’ed a goose

knelt and “sssswwwsssd”

into long afternoons

I think she prayed for us

who prayed for others

who hadn’t a prayer

Then there was angry Patricia.

Unable to express her contempt,

set fire to the altar

while we all burned