Archive
Confession as Show and Tell
after Kelli Russell Agodon
I kneel to anything these days
stop short of calling it prayer.
In cotton robes I chase fallen grapes
beneath a supermarket altar
of Vidalia onions,
place papery skins on my tongue,
choke on dusty absolution.
At the foot of the bed
(raft of abstinence)
I tuck twenty-count cotton sheets
as far beneath the mattress as they will go,
clasp my hands beneath its weight
thank the god of coil and spring-air
that it is not a king or queen
but a full—
like a sinner’s prayer
lacking real weight.
In the back seat of a car
tree trunks and branches form a sort of confessional.
I bow
take in my hands
your last hope.
I am a penitent past curfew
siphoning the last drops
of something like forgiveness.
Drink. This is what you have shed for me (not many).
That it is not grape juice
makes it all the more sweeter.
Jill Crammond is a poet, artist and teacher funding her poetry passion by teaching children’s art and writing classes throughout New York State’s Capital Region. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Creek Review, Fire on Her Tongue (Two Sylvias Press), Classifieds: An Anthology of Prose Poems, Weave and others.
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