I never told him anything
he didn’t expect —
the white lies of a small girl,
a week’s accumulations
related in halting, mouselike whispers.
He blessed me anyway
and gave me my penance
and bade me go in peace.
Perhaps the next penitent
would offer him what he came for,
a great, meaty, mortal sin like adultery
described in gorgeous language,
words that lit up the confessional
like a flashlight in a closet:
a silk cuff missing its button,
sheer stockings coiled on the floor,
shoes with heels like wineglass stems —
the hypnotic black-and-white images of film noir,
wherein all eyes followed a bad star
with uncontrollable longing.