Red scratchy fabric lining the confessional
Imprinted a checkerboard into my knees;
My spine stacked upright,
Leading to heaven, or down into hell;
Guilt or shame pulling my head down;
Tears would’ve fallen on my baby cheeks
If the church hadn’t been as cold as hell was hot;
My hands pressed firmly against each other,
My fingers pointing straight to heaven;
Just like Mrs. Conte taught me
Don’t fold your hands,
Don’t let your fingers point straight down to hell below,
Point them to the sky, to God, to the heavens,
Church steeples in their own right.

I went to do my penance.
15 Hail Marys and 1 Our Father,
The Act of Contrition said and done,
I continued to pray,
Tears flowing from my cheeks
Steady as the water from the baptismal fountain.

Red fabric now carving checkerboards of my knees
Father Dave would pass by my pew,
His fire and brimstone sermon finished.
I sat straighter,
Pressed my hands together tighter,
Made my face holier.
Father Dave’s face was always red,
riverlike veins bulging,
little stubbles poking out of his chins and over his jowls.
Robes starting at his shoulders,
rounding over his well fed stomach,
flowing down to hell.
Petrified of going to hell, I wanted to do the right thing,
But I was scared of that too.
Would I still go to hell
If I was doing something simply for the sake of going to heaven?
Shouldn’t I just be motivated by my love and desire for God?
I prayed and prayed and prayed,
My whispers hallowed His name
Dear Lord,
Please help me be a good person, help me go to heaven, help me be beautiful.
Immediately I would feel sick with guilt or shame,
Why am I praying to be beautiful when I could be praying for starving children?
Dear God, Please forgive me, let me be good.
Frantically under my Tinker Bell blankets,
I recited Hail Mary after Hail Mary,
Eyes clamped tight, teeth clenched, legs curled, fingers pointing up to the sky, even though I was sideways.