Through unheard hymns, stained glass reflections,
and blurred visions of scattered rosary beads under a dusty crucifix
I stumble desperately towards the confessional booth
so as to skip purgatory
and walk across dried [willow]* leaves,
the patron saint of flipping the bird
refusing to recognize the difference
between water and it's apparently holy counterpart.

Unscathed by altars of broken dreams
I will slip into the mysterious afterlife
without fear of judgement,
rather drunk
with a child's curiosity.


*unfavorable climates for palms led to the substitution of boughs of box, yew, willow or other native trees.