Confessions

Today I reworked a poem, originally written 14 years ago as part of a poetry class assignment. We were to write about a secret never told. I decided to write one about a friend who I shared almost everything but this one "secret. I kept this "secret" originally not out of my own fears or shame but at the request of our other friends' concerns who thought our friend's religious beliefs couldn't handle it.

My poem came out so cryptically that my poetry teacher didn't understand it. Then again, he didn't get a lot of things I wrote. The question is, how much do we unravel so that other people can understand us? And is it worth it in the end?

Here's my poem titled, "Confessions"

On the couch
that’s mine when you’re married,
I’ve pulsed,
waiting with grain on my tongue
for scales weighting over.
The candy kisses always on your table
replace my mouth.
Break my vows.

You’re up the street every Sunday
Bells ringing at that damn church.

Chasing confessions.

You changed;
we thought from that old hick town phobia.

You pulled out of us dirty underwear piece by piece
to satisfy what you couldn’t do
and what we used as confessions.

But amongst us girls, we keep against you
Beyond cheap thrills,
the deepest sins against your believed recrimination.

The constraints of your beliefs wrapped so tightly
They’re invisible.

They keep you in line
and us out.

The couch sunk in laughter,
like a brother we wish you all were,
I sit back, arms crossed
weighing what it means to be heard.