In the confessional I watched
the geometric shadow of the divider shift
in the late afternoon light

I did my penance in silence
and looked at the depictions of the crucifixion, unmoved.

The church’s steeple was an austere square redbrick that only rose a little over two stories.
Once, I walked away before being absolved and had to get in the back of the line.

I confessed that I had memorized the batting order, but did not tell the priest
that I felt guilty each time I received communion.
Ingesting God felt unremarkable in comparison to Skinemax.

What was sacred then? My mother waking me before dawn
to serve mass and on the way explaining why one of the families
had mailed her pictures of aborted fetuses
because of her Obama bumper sticker. 

My father taking me with him to the bar when I was twelve
me hiding the porno mag he stashed between the seats of his car
before we all drove to my aunt’s.

My mother did eventually remove the bumper sticker
but only because my father told her to.
He was worried it would affect his sales.
Whenever I complained about his absence he’d get angry and say:
“We’re not like other people, we’re in business for ourselves.”

I waited after practice with Nate Brooks and his dad and when I said they could go
Mr. Brooks, a tax accountant, looked relieved. In the empty parking lot I sat in the
shadow of the steeple. As the sun defected closer to the horizon
                                                                                        the shadow moved out into the field.

Eventually, I stopped complaining about his absence.

There was a blue tarp draped over the chimney of the rectory.
As the interior went through repairs
from years of accumulated smoke and silt.

The secretary smoked and did not seem to notice the odor of the chimney.

One of the gas station cashiers
was being trained across from the steeple.
I memorized the list of duties that fed into the sacrament. My shadow enveloped
along the long wall. Where the bad kids smoked.
The evacuation plan had us all meeting up in front of the K-Mart parking lot.

         I was so nervous on the altar. The rituals held no significance beyond their order
         within the mass. Which I could never remember. The woman whose daughter sent my mom the pictures of the aborted fetuses led the choir. When the song ended I knew I had to get up and get something for the priest but I was not sure what.

The cashier in training’s hair was greasy
the after school light caught in
the glass of the cigarette case
behind the counter.

A bird sat at the southeast corner of the  space frame roof of the gas station
connected by steel pipes, used for the sunshade and rainproof. It has a long service life.
We memorized for the test how many centuries in purgatory a mortal sin cost.
The teacher said we all committed venial sins without even knowing it.
The space frame roof of the gas station has two kinds of welding balls and bolt balls.
It encased the customers from the rain.

I read on the back of the plastic container of communion wafers
that they were shelf stable.

In the absence of intermediate parties
         our family had exhausted all available lines of credit,
         my mother ate her sins and then vomited them back up.

My class laughed when the divorced theology teacher
         who kept her ex husband’s last name
         wore a sweater that did not cover her whole belly.
         We laughed at the ruby red skin as she told us to open our hymnals.

When I failed algebra for the first time
the online tutor hung up on me when
I got the problem wrong for the third time.

Before a great aunt died we all did a perfunctory laying on of hands
         her husband cried a few weeks later when her voice
         played over the answering machine.

I never liked putting on the robes
so nervous as I poured the water and wine out of order
or as my brother and I stood in front of the lectern with
our candles as the priest read from the bible.

His face was slightly obscured behind the flame.
We’d mouth: “fuck you” to each other
from opposite sides of the altar.

Carrying the cross was the best
because you got to sit for almost all of mass
until it was time to process out.

Or the time that my rope belt
kept falling down on the altar
until finally the matriarch
of the town’s funeral home
came up to the altar and tied it tight.

Father Macgaheen came into the classroom the next day in the middle of history
and took all three of us who had served mass the day before and told us
one of the candles had burned through the night.
The church had not burned down and he told us God had interceded. 

I was glad to have something to confess next time
that he already knew about.