i confessed my sins, and look where it brought us
after years in the catholic church
spines ramrod straight and hands clasped in prayer
your sworn chastity after we lost the love of our life
clench your jaw shut, voice and empty void of intimacy

sunlight, fractured through the kaleidoscope of stained glass
dusty windows, dusty air filled with the thick scent
of lilies from the morning service.
you always did like the evenings
but you love our after hours, more.

my attention wanders
the priest's empty sermon is full of sh..
resisting temptation ? those words echo
mockingly in my ears.
how lovely !

i wore the satin dress you love
the one i shouldn't wear in public
because it barely meets the church's requirements
but you'd do anything to see the silhouette of my body
the muted lavender draping over my frame like water

ever attuned to me, your gaze falters
your eyes meet mine in gentle inquiry.
'i have a weird fixation with that dress...'
the satin was so gorgeously draped on me
'i want to own her..'

the soft light caught the curve of my neck
my head bowed in mindless prayer
it stirs a disquieting warmth within your *****
a sensation wholly inappropriate for your daughter
'forget about it, forget about it, forget about...'

shake the feeling
let it flee from your mind
but you can't help the urge to pull me into your lap
just to... feel me in your space.
if she couldn't be a part of him, he'd settle for her being on top.

his attention has always conjured a different feeling in me
i had to have been misinterpreting it,
but was i really ?
the way he caressed my hips and thighs when he could,
whispering sweet nothings in my ear

these thoughts, these sinful
sinful
thoughts..
they can't be one sided !
can they ?

the focus on faith
always had me feeling
as if we lacked emotional intimacy.
so my mind
sought it in other areas.

the drive home was quiet
with the prospect of our self-conducted confessional
looming over her in the NSX-R
as a judgement of my own actions.
i dreaded what was to come.

i know you notice my silence
i hear your hands clench the leather
your eyes flickering towards me,
my frame against the blurred cityscape
'what could she possibly be stressing over ?'

our home, modest, but meticulously kept
i hear you move with the usual quiet efficiency
i trail, i trail, i trail
unease burgeoning with every fleeting moment
the low clinks of cutlery do nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.

"so pretty..."
'did i say that out loud ?'
yes, daddy, you did !
but my eyes are still glazed,
focused on nothing

you can't help it
the way my dress hung so elegantly on my pale body
my defined collarbone, and slim neck
just begging you
to pepper heated kissed to show 'affection'

you tell yourself
it's just a father's pride in her mother's beauty
but the treacherous voice
keeps telling you
it's something more. something dangerous.

you tell me i seem troubled
and you ask me what is wrong
your tone is laced with something slightly foreboding
"i have something i should tell you."
my cheeks flush. "don't worry. nothing's wrong, daddy. it's about me."

...

he sat closely beside me on the sofa,
taking my delicate hand in his.
he adores my slim features,
my pale skin
that he wanted to blemish so badly.

his touch, usually a source of reassurance,
now sent a confusing shiver through me.
his hands, strong and capable,
were one of the features i often found myself fixating on
during my forbidden twilight thoughts.

his demeanor was curious,
and he couldn’t help but imagine what i had to say.
“i’m listening, angel,”
he prompted,
his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand.

i finally met his eyes,
my own filled with a mixture
of shame and a desperate need for…
something i couldn’t quite articulate.
validation, maybe ?

the gaze you returned
was uncomfortable,
but i couldn’t look away.
“please, daddy–
don’t make me confess my sins.”

A Berlin monastic church of blood
shed by true witnesses to freedom’s love:
These few who stood against the flood
of hate from tyrants they rebuffed.

Not far from here, these martyrs were killed
for facing down the brownshirts’ might,
in hopes that all would someday be filled
with the will to live for love’s delight.

Here Mary sits with her holy child,
carved of warm wood, set on cold stone.
She bears an expression, calm and mild,
with nothing around them: alone.

Her robes are daubed in palest blue
while her hair with a golden crown is wed;
her baby son wears redder hues
that foreshadow blood he and his martyrs shed.

This blessèd Mary’s calm defies the fear
decreed by despots in past and present years —
Softly, she whispers her granite will: Defy
all tyranny ’til hate’s tides subside.

Why do I fear what is near
Tears through our rain
Count down every year
Why do we yearn for our dear
To hear a call as we fall
As l ascend to heaven you are here
When I make my bed you are here
The ten command
That were too harsh for man
Why must you demand
Perfect holy land
Once as hopeless as Lilith
Did I not know my limit
Enlighten me in my consciousness
Ground me in the presence
Allure my affluence
For my third eye left me with such penury
Grant me mercy
For my surface mind gave me spiritual insight
From the root to my crown
Do not let me drown
In pits that are lit
Why must I question what ill see
Beauty isn't something we fear
Temptation is clear in the deception
Our guardians are indescribable
Our wrongs will be held liable
What if I turn over the bible
Will you bury me in my affidavit
For there is good in my intuitive belief
I never guess what time will read
I never question what is beneath
A God that we have yet seen
I never question life within my eyes
Our time will come with such delirious demise

In a cathedral of stone, stark and white,
with a lone statue from long before.
It stands in a niche, with a soft spotlight
shining on its medieval decor.

A ****** Mary, with her Mona Lisa smile,
looks down from her pedestal high.
In quiet, I stand and gaze at her for a while.
Did I just hear her audibly sigh?

Her gilded robes are weathered, cracked,
the once bright paint’s faded and spare,
many scars made plain by shadows cast
by a red circle of candles lit by prayers.

What crises has this scarred Mary seen?
Her sighs echo ours: This statue’s hallowed
by the pains the prayerful to her bring.
I hail thee, marred Mary, full of our sorrows.

Two thousand years and miles away
a foretold child was to poverty born.
A tyrant willed to keep his sway
and murdered children in his scorn.

The child would live to preach a love
that surpasses the smallness of our minds;
The despot now dwells in a dim-lit grove
of shattered urns and skeletal time.

That child became a man of words
which fell upon unhearing ears —
They twist his love to sharpened swords.
To a tree he’d be nailed: hyssop tears.

Yet though he too had died alone
like the despot who’d hunted him,
his message of love has only grown
in spite of new despots grim.

A tale of two kings in memory:
One turned to dust, one love’s victory.

On a church, Mother Mary gazes up high
with her saving babe on her stone arm.
On her alabaster face: a cryptic smile
that has its own fine chiseled charm.

While I stand in the old town’s cobblestone street,
my mind sees me in a far distant place.
The visions I see speak of defeat,
a void that devours all grace.

I see myself floating in a brittle wood boat
with sails torn to shreds by the storms.
Frantically I toil to stay afloat,
tossed by black waves which ebb and reform.

Her disk halo of gold shines out in the dark,
glinting to those who sail by.
I ask her: tell me what can give me a spark
to let me soar up into the sky.

She offers no answer in so many words
and just smiles on, stonily serene.
In her silence is where her answer is heard,
a quiet reply — I know just what she means.

The rock of her tells me what I must hear:
No need to soar nor fly nor flee.
Let black tides flow past me ‘til they clear.
Like this old pale statue, just simply be.