Confession is where my new church
begins. Come clean early
before rattling off hymns, remembering
ourselves pious—
Someone has chosen a new song.
Even the choir mumbles through,
except for Mrs. Maud. Discorded
unity. We each hold a different note
and I’m glad I don’t know
the two girls laughing behind me,
don’t join in like I used to.
I’m a woman now, I guess.
Like a good Lutheran, I’ve learned
to carry on. We sing words unsure
and sure our souls. Grace or mercy?
At church camp, I never knew
the answer. Learned faith was messy.
Look at us. We imitate, render His sky
with finger paint like kids paint people:
no bodies, just faces, hands.