And so I begin to scribble penance.
I'm too careful with my soul not to know
its tarnish has made itself apparent—
a momentary lapse of attention
something grumbled, blasphemous, a gnashing
of teeth. What is it that's written of wrath?
Raise you voice to a sleight, feel your fingers
kink to fists. Rage, like an old memory
of rage—like sixteen in a broken town.
Bile and adrenaline rise in your throat,
you are a cornered alley cat: big and black
and bent on living, all piss and instinct.
And for this you think you must repent.
Because I would not flinch or turn my face
in what I've witnessed; because I've never
managed to rise from my ashen bed,
I turn westward and confuse grace
with the sun at afternoon's angle—weather
fair, the air sweeps away what I've not said
what I have, and have yet to set
in motion. Why is it blue skies persist
at this solemn hour of the year's regret?
How is it, that even now, my soul resists
those calling winds, that even song of spring?
I am a fool who's blessed with doubt.
Confessed and open, the cemented grout
of this heart, ruined and ready to sing.
And like this the sun catches through
the blind-drawn windows, the trees burgeoning
buds cast true shadow: You realize winter's
greatcoat no longer wears against your
soul's seams. There are omens you should
believe in—the thick almanac of argument—;
There are witnesses, here in this room:
The cats sprawled at the carpet's edge where
morning rise still reaches. And you, my love,
wrestle with the overstuffed Sunday edition
I pilfered from the growing pile on the
stoop. These are blessings. And with blessings,
gratitude's obligation: A pen and ink
a note, simplistically honest, Thank you.