Contrition, Confession

by Isa Mari De Leon

i

I’m trying to remember that prayer,

something something I’m sorry for all my sins—

because passed the pinhole in the backyard fence

I see

what I thought was one woman hugging herself so tightly her arms wound around

herself but then the porch light flicks on and there are two long-haired shadows,

laughing.

She takes the other lady’s face in her hands and I take God’s name in vain

—with all my heart.

The dew grass is too sticky on my bare feet

so I stay

and the summer flies buzz toward my open screen door

so I stay

something something whom I should love above all things.

They press closer together and

I press my hands against the fence and

one runs her fingers through the other’s hair and

I think of a few years ago

when I pulled my best friend’s pigtails on the playground and

something something avoid whatever leads me to sin

so I stay

ii

I am dancing in between the sky and
soil, the same in color, with you. My dear,

although our love has lived for long, beyond
some generations of summertime gnats,

or the hailstorms and the darkness, I must
confess: you are so beautiful. We laugh,

but I love your crooked spine beside mine.
The space in my arms is never empty.

Even now, I accidentally step
a sandaled foot over yours, and you

string your hands through my hair to repay me.
Behind you, a garden snake drags itself

across the grass. I guide you away and
hear a breath. From here, the yellow sconce light

of our backyard haloes us.