You went to confession
once a week, Saturday evenings,
to get your “pot scraped”,
to tell all, or nearly all,
in the dark chapel booth,
whispering your venial trivia
to a priest’s silhouette,
feigning lump-in-the-throat regret,
anything easily excused and forgiven
to regain your licence for communion
on Sunday mornings, showing off,
a consistent holier-than-thou fraud,
unworthy to be in a house of God.
You timed your last confession
to the very moment of your death,
speaking your final, vile words
up to your last audible breath.
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