Five Poems Anne Walsh Donnelly
THE CONFESSIONAL BOX
Women cluck like hens outside the door,
they interrupt Fr. Doyle’s thoughts.
Joan doesn’t cluck, her voice a double bass,
her laugh, a well-tuned string.
He blinks his eyes, adjusts to the dark. The church,
this box has become his coffin.
Fingers the gold cross embroidered on the purple stole
hanging around his neck.
A John Major cough erupts from the other side of the grille,
followed by flatulence. He pulls back the curtain.
“Forgive me, Father …”