Late Confession

Monsignor, I believed Jesus followed me

With his eyes, and when I slept,

An angel peeled an orange

And waited for me to wake up.

This was 1962. I was ten, small as the flame

Of a struck match, my lungs fiery

From hard, wintery play. When I returned home,

Legs hurting, I placed my hands on the windowsill

And looked out—clouds dirty as towels

And geese I have yet to see again

Darkening the western sky.

Monsignor, a machine

Had painted on the eyes of my toy soldier,

Little dots off-center,

Almost on his cheeks. Such a cheap toy,

I drowned him over and over in my bath,

Drowned him until the painted-on eyes flaked off.

Then a leg fell off—surge of dirty water

Sunk him to the bottom.

I now at this age place hands on the windowsill,

My eyes nearly on my cheeks,

My belly with its rising tide.

There is no angel with an orange at the edge

Of my bed. There is no soldier

Of God. Only a pane between the inside

And the outside, between this living

And this dying. Monsignor,

Saintly man of this child's wonderment,

When will I see the geese again?