In the Stone Temple Confessional
Cool stone received my palm; the incense lay
in threads that curled like breath along the nave.
A bell gave one thin sound, then slipped away;
Wax climbed the brass where earlier drops had clave.
I bent—my breath caught short against my teeth—
And asked, in lowered words, if such a sleep
with women bore a mark. He did not sheath
his pause, but let it rest, as men who keep
Their counsel do. He mused; his beard struck gold,
And measured me from heel to lifted sight:
“No sin, my son, to sleep with women,” he told,
“Yet men like you stay wakeful, lie upright.”
The tide within, long thinned by watch and fast,
Grew warm, grew near, and found its former way;
My spine held still; the count of breaths ran fast—
My knees drew close; the bench knew where I’d stay.
A splinter kissed my heel. I fixed my eyes
on stone between my shoes. The bell stood mute.
The door stood wide. I rose at measured size,
and walked out lighter-footed, quick, and mute.
Through Author’s Lens:
I chose this moment because it hath abided with me not as counsel nor as turning of the soul, but as a brief alteration of the flesh, which asked no gloss when it occurred. It was bounded in place and hour, and so seemed fit to bear its own weight upon the page.
The line grievous to fashion was the priest’s utterance. I was oft tempted to temper it with preface or to dress it in comment, yet each such labour dulled its edge. To let it stand unguarded required restraint.
From the first draft I struck away much declaring: the cause of my going thither, the temper of my mind. I also removed plain naming of the body’s stir. Whenever I named it, the verse grew coarse. What remains is nearer the manner in which the moment first stood before me.
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