Without kneeling, without the sign of the cross
without self-examination
her worn keyboard becomes a confessional.
Lithe fingers tap, tap, tap out
secrets in lines of tasted desires
and opened dark doors.
With a series of deletions and replacements, key by key,
bolstered by the fervor of the moment
tales of her recent transgressions emerge.
Like a cat leaping toward it's victim
her index finger punches the enter key
as details of her indiscretions, come to rest on-line
as obvious as hunters' prey in an open field.  

Cyberspace, like a priest without a collar,
accepts her admissions without the comfort of absolution
still her guilt is released.