God was listening, but even so
I never told the truth
in confession. If I’d stolen candy
from Woolworth’s, I’d say I took
the Lord’s name
in vain eleven times, Father,
since my last confession. If I’d
been good,
I’d say I took the Lord’s name
six or seven times. I knew the priest
depended on sins
to feel good about his job,
but most of all I wanted to get back
to the religion
of the schoolyard as fast as possible,
to epiphanous spin moves off the post
and soft reverse layups.
Thus I never properly did penance
at the altar, two Hail Mary’s
instead of four,
a fast Our Father, maybe half
an Act of Contrition or Apostle’s
Creed.
I don’t know why I never was afraid
of God and his famous penchant
for punishment.
I don’t know why Hell
didn’t scare me, why it seemed
like some movie
with special effects. Angels, though,
were real, like invisible friends
you could count on.
I remember thinking angels could make
a shot go in, angels were what prayers
were all about.
When my friend Brian said
he was going to confess to Father Kelly
that he masturbated,
I told him look, no, don’t stir up
Father Kelly, tell him you took
the Lord’s name in vain
three hundred times and were very sorry,
but Brian said God was listening,
God knew,
and anyway he would be forgiven,
that was the thing about being Catholic,
stupid, your sins
could be forgiven. I knew he was right,
but I went right on confessing
to Jesus Christs,
goddamns, Christs Almighty, words
I never in fact said, but words I knew
were the right words
for the occasion.
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