In a booth, she shuddered with sobs
giving the priest a confession
through a labored, snotty,
voice of cracked words,
smoldering with a euphoric high,
believing her hitman pulled off
the hit.
A Catholic girl cast a spell
written in her crinkled gaze.
We locked eyes like words
inked on the horizon;
we embraced our insecurity.
My heart of stone
melted the boiling indignation,
cooling a soft breeze with autumn leaves.
What’s holy battles affinity, but a stoic lie
swaps a goodbye.
I’m the priest
she tried to kill,
listening to her tell me how sorry she was;
at least I’m good at something.
“I knew it was you,” she said in a flirtatious voice.
“I’m glad to be alive.”
(© 2022 AC)
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