[Poem-a-Week] catholic girl's howl by Gia
(this is NOT a confessional confessional poem)
(this is NOT a confessional confessional poem) At 13, she refused to go to confession MAYBE because by then, her sins seemed bigger than the lies she had made up before OR MAYBE smoking cigarettes behind the grotto in her black-and-gold cheerleading uniform kissing all the boys one by one was way more fun OR MAYBE the confessional was a musty closet too dark for her clothes or her soul with a long-patterned shadow lacing the priest and her together in a patriarchal, performative play In that moment, she felt forever frozen in time like statue soldier saints positioned throughout the church always on guard, for what? She wasn’t sure reporting nothing they see their stone-gray faces always so sad even with bright-colored flowers bursting at their toes while warm, red candles flicker fervent adoration OR MAYBE because the scriptures and Mass prayers were always telling her she would never be worthy or full of grace like the Virgin Mary as the shards of stained-glass tableaus seemed always to be looking down stopping their stories mid-sentence just to judge her But then, specks of dust fell softly like snowflakes down the color light shafts puddling on the marble floor seemed like some kind of miracle Even now, the image is a reoccurring visitation to her at 33 She realized the symbolism of her age in that very moment as she declared to a stranger pressuring her, that she didn’t like being on her knees whether in prayer or giving a blow job Moments later, a laced, lattice-shaped shadow lunged across the gray sidewalk reminding her of the pattern in the confessional a long time ago She saw her 13-year-old self in a plaid skirt the hem, not past her knees always getting her another round of detention A strong thought came rushing in: MAYBE that priest should have been the one to confess all his sins instead of standing in a blessed beam of light atop a golden alter, righteously proclaiming he was the only one who knew all of Jesus’s thoughts She remained strong in her conviction to keep all her confessions on the tip of her tongue so, you might savor the taste without her having to say “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned” Now, she wears her sins proudly like a tight, black dress clinging to her without a shred of regret And when the dawn comes on angel’s white-feathered wings she rejoices, for she knows it’s the morning light that will save her even if she is not on bended knees
