Confession

i ran my hands across
your sweaty naked
breasts
stopping only
briefly
at your nipples
swollen
sticky
freezer burnt
gumdrop's

dismissed

shoulder
smoke
you've finished with me
and begun working a
marlboro.

i keep the souls
of twelve
catholic priests
trapped
in a shoe box
under the bed
for moments like this
when i lay naked with a
woman who hates me for
loving her
and i have enjoyed it

i must confess.
i must confess.


Michael Lorne Leard