Father Tom wants my deathbed confession.
He told me so with no shame
on his freshly shaved face.
As if I owed my perversions to him.
I'd rather a priest with a beard
administer my Last Rites,
though are they truly a necessity?
My father's heart ceased to beat without
their ostentation.

She asks if I'm distressed.
How could I tell?
Things are as things are.
If I am, it's because of the legions
inquiring after my heritage,
as if it's their business, as if
hoping to form a bond.
Names. Gather nothing
from a name. I am
whatever I decide to call myself
today. On Thursdays, I choose
Ann.

Candace. I used her in a poem once—
so did John. I hate that we share near titles.
That we write of drafts
and square buttons and lovers whose names
were onions in our soup.
I hate that he's been here
longer, that he's older.
He's used up my time
before I've gotten started,
my time, my words—
how can I not be distressed
when lobster bisque is still a riddle?

Ah, Father, you lose.
I have been a sinner,
a liar,
a larcenist,
a vilifier,
an adulterer …
a whore.
But I've done so publicly,
under my own name,
never
hiding from God.


© 2004

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