Confessional

There was snow,
soft, white ash that
covered your palms when
you told me about her
outside of St John's Cathedral.

Barely sober, with solemn stance
you asked for a psalm, something
to part forgiveness on your
August dalliance, for a
truth that could absolve

the brimming womb of
your Mother Mary,
and the summer that
would soon bare fruit
too fair for the sun.