Litany for the Sinned Against (one)

Litany for the Sinned Against      

(one)       

I

want your blessing,

whoever you are who

has the power to give

me a name for

whatever I am. 

                        Philip Levine

                        Words

Why is it only years later, long beyond

their levy, that sins against us feel  

like sins at all?  Fresh

in the hand they are just-pulled roots

cool with manure that’s been, after all

this time, turned into a shit that has

value, that isn’t the ass it fell out of

or the floor it smacked against, waiting

casually for nothing.  Until the shovel,

there is never caring, not ever, who

was at the handle.

Sins live in the whispers only confessional

drapes can mimic, and the pulling too,

a privacy curtain.  Have you ever noticed,

aside from its crushed velvet, regardless

of its red or black, it’s not that different,

hanging there, closed or open, than

a doctor’s office-side examining room,

and not just for the cloth?  Boxes are tight

and spare little light but the lying

down is just the same, the cut

above the lip that shreds vowels like

cheese graters is still raw.  But in this town

a doctor’s not

going to ask and a priest is not going

to judge.  They’ve got the Law and God

on a leash and the poor bastards are turning

circles at the door, wrapping the leather

so tight its choke- on-a-bone close

to dying.  It’s all quiet until they learn

(and remember because that’s the crucial

part) to turn around and sit still while

papers and blame are shuffled

like poker cards, while beef on the hoof

is made by the butcher at the edge of town

to take off her coat and her whole shitty

world is split from ass to appetite as

the doctor says about caesarians to the thirteen

year old girl who never flinches from the gel

and speculum, who tries to be cool and wipes her lip

and stares blinks at the bright examining light,

the white privacy sheet parting the air

for the priest come to take her spirit outside

for a quick drowning in the roses.