Middle poem #1: The letter
When does it lose its gripon me? When I wroteit and sent it to the Chanceryso others will know thathe rubbed my back andunclasped my brawhile I sat at his tableaddressing church envelopesand refusing the spice dropsin a crystal bowlhe pushed toward me.In confession I knelt andhe slid the door open.I looked through a grillecovered in a white handkerchief.I said, “A man touched meimpurely” and he leaned closer.in that box that smelled of dustand wax and his Listerine breath.He asked, “Who was this man?A brother, a dad or schoolmate?”If I lied, I’d sin again. I said,“A neighbor guy” and sobbed.
Who did Father confess to?He gambled and bettedon the Derby and drove hisCadillac to Kentucky andback and around the golfcourse,stopping at the clubhousefor a ham on white and whiskey.
When he made Monsignor,he bought new clothes. Theblacks were blacker and thepurple sash too bright for Lent.The biretta with the redpom-pom was his favorite andhe even wore it to ourweekly religious instruction.When he scolded us, in ourclassroom with Sister Martinstanding in back, about datinga non-catholic, his voice rose.“Drop them like a hot potato.”And I wanted to drop himlike a scorched spudbut instead, once a month,was made by the sisters to goback to that box for more.
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