Inside the Confessional

Saturday afternoons we went to Confession.

That gave us all day to play.

The dirt got to be soft with kids going back

and forth, a perfect spot for playing marbles. 

With a stick we drew a circle in the dirt

and in the middle of the circle was a hole.

We aimed at the hole to win.

We fought over cats eyes and keepsies.

Sure, there was cheating in that small place,

leaning down in the dirt. We got really

sweaty in the summer playing there.

After, our mothers turned on the sprinklers

and we rinsed off so we wouldn’t have to take a bath.

Inside the church, by the darkened booth,

 a line would form for the nice priest

who gave easy penances:  three Hail Marys,

that was it, we were off scot free,

safe from the licking flames of hell. 

Monsignor McDowell never had a line.

He said our tongues would turn to worms

 if we kept up our lying to our little brother

about where we kept our candy.    

We held our breath and lied about our sins.

Once inside, we were invisible,

hidden from the world, just us

and the plaited rush partition that let

our sins into the priest and his forgiveness

fly out to us on the other side.  

We listened for the sound of the shift

of the slot.  Then we would begin

to list our wickedness. The penance lifted

the grit and washed the tiny flecks of mud.

All clean,  we were free to go out and sin again.