Since My Last Confession

Trying to wrap my mind around our smash up, 
I’m left wheezing like an asthmatic—prey to
endless bouts of “meaning slippage.” 
Your version was immediate and visual: 
an exposed slit of thong as I bent. 
There was no concentrating after that. 
My reply was primal, too—born of the glance
baring your lust.  Still, we sat silent as monks —  
the space between us smaller than a division
of pre- and post-synaptic neural membranes. 
A moment of turbulence—a sudden collision
of knees—could’ve provided reason to speak. 
Instead, we retreated to magazines before
going separate ways.  Fate or chance
would have it otherwise.  After the deed,
we pillow-spoke how lunch was the defining
moment—the point during which we could’ve
turned back. That booth—dark, deep cocoon—
was devil-catalyst, egging us toward sin. 
A smile, a look—locked and knowing—fingers
reaching to touch, and we were bound for
It-Just-Happenedville, a place where grey trumps
black and white, and temptation’s lure won’t be denied. 
Bless me father: I have willingly sinned. 


Sharon Kozden

If you've any comments about this poem, Sharon Kozden would be pleased to hear from you.