VICARIOUS ABSOLUTION
Richard Fein
Statues of Mary studied me, Jesus shone through a stained glass window,
and votive candles lit the dark recesses where legions of sculptured saints
were worn down by relentless prayers.
A row of fidgety sinners sat on the front pew,
as if waiting for the doctor's needle.
The confessional resembled an old wooden telephone booth,
where messages of contrition overloaded the circuits to God.
They couldn't have all been felons,
but some must have wished they were
evil enough to make the stone saints weep
or to hold the priest's ear for more than a minute.
The others tortured the tired cleric by babbling endless misdemeanors.
My sin was stalking and trespassing,
for I had followed her into this alien place.
I had to.
I knew little of her faith,
but I knew her sin before the priest did.
Her sin was mine, if it really were a sin.
Girls might call it an exploration.
Fourteen-year-old boys usually called it an almost conquest,
or getting to second or third base.
But not scoring at home,
for her hand was resolute and stronger than Samson's.
Her confession finished, she quickly walked up the same aisle
that brides slowly walked down.
She chanted softly over her cross and beads.
I hid near the Madonna.
She never saw me, but the priest did.
He knew who I was; he must have. I'm sure.
I was young Satan incarnate invading his church.
I lurched back and felt the cold marble touch of the Holy Virgin.
She had a stone-hard face fixed in a gentle smile.
