Forgive me, Father, for someone has sinned.
Never mind who; I will do the penance.
It has been seventeen years since my last confession
and then I may have lied out of shame or pride.
Here is the truth and I know it will not set me free:
My father’s sins were in his hands
and he left them imprinted on my skin.
Those hands broke flesh and bone and soul,
and I am left with open fractures that may never heal.
My mother’s sins were those of omission.
Her hands are clean but not her heart.
My sins are in my marrow, bone-deep and viscous.
They swim in the cerebral-spinal fluid
that cushions my mind inside my skull.
If we are all sinners, why is there such shame in sinning?
How many Our Father’s until I am clean?
How many Hail Mary’s until I am whole?
Lord knows, I’ve already prayed.
