Every night I cross a bridge. Every night I cross myself 

& ask to be forgiven for what I have & haven’t done. 

Father, Father, Father. My first confession was at eight

& I kneeled, God-fearing, braced for priestly judgement.

Now I’ve arrived at verse. I wonder if it will go on

forever, this bearing of myself to others. I want a history

in which I was good, meaning honest, meaning rung out

& scarce of secrets. What shall I newly confess today?

Here: I find men hot. I cannot say to my mother

as we walk on the beach isn’t that guy hot

as I can turn to her in our pew and say she’s beautiful.

Not a church love, is it? Another: My father wanted

to get married in the cathedral he grew up attending

Mass at but it was torn down in his twenties. I want

to get married in the church I grew up attending—

catechism & nativity plays & weekly Mass & sacraments—

but I doubt they’d allow it. I imagine my wedding day,

looking hot with my love in the nave, before the altar

the two of us, neither wearing white, and it’s

getting hotter, we’re sweating through our suits &

there’s smoke & before I can say I’m sorry I’m sorry 

I repent he puts a hand over my mouth & we burn together.