The genesis of my narrative invention

Began in the throes of Catholic confession,

What counted as a sin?

Where should I begin?

“I have disobeyed my mother

Seven times, father,

I have used bad words

Three times, father.”

The numbers were arbitrary.

The sins, venal.

I had to confess something.

 

“Two ‘Hail Marys’ and an ‘Our Father.’”

The priest passed sentence

And, at the tender age of seven,

I emerged, purged.

Should I have suffered bad luck

And been hit by a truck,

I would still have gone to heaven!

 

I confess that I did lie to the priest!

Had I disobeyed my mother?

Had I used bad language?

I had no need of sin, at the time.

 

This was not about forgiveness -

It was more concerned with control.

Peering into every child’s soul,

Making us fixate on our guilt,

Until we are frail and old…

 

 

Father, it is fifty years since my last confession.

My unrepented sins have banked up,

Like a coastal shelf, against a flooding tide.

They are too many and too various to innumerate,

My blackened soul has been abandoned to fate.

 

‘Doubt and confusion’ describe what I feel.

 

I have prayed to God in darker times,

Balancing my atheism with Christian zeal.

 

So, please add hypocrisy to the list of my crimes.