To a claustrophobic, the confessional
was penance enough, she thought -
an upended coffin filled with rotting sins
and little more.

Fear’s dark clarity honed her senses;
she smelled the sweat of true believers,
the arrogance of hypocrites and
the heartbeat on the other side
of the little door, dull
and disinterested, waiting
for something more.

She thought then of a Sexton poem –
a dragonfly’s unapologetic un-apology,
and grinned.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, ”
she would begin, knowing
without hesitation, that she
would do so
again.

Christine Austin Cole

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/confession-16/