Confessional

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.

I wanted to have the baby. I wanted to feed it
lye from my breasts. I wanted to raise it
Catholic, swaddled, blank.
Left beneath the oak tree, never
minded. Like a mother I baked
the bread: round, full.
Glutted myself on the taste
transubstantiated whole.

I drew the ellipse around your name.
This one, only.
A promise.

Then the dark was too clear
and too perfect
and I saw it as it was,
another chain to

break.