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Confession

 

 

'curious', the pretty young woman says:

the word stops me in the gallery.

she is describing my specs

from her seat admiring

the Barnett Newman.

she is a flautist and mistaking the date

of her master class, pitched up here,

the nearest gallery, and netted me.

 

 

 

you need a stranger to share your story.

you arrived to study here and found problems

and then more problems with your folks

back home and it all became too much

and you ran to confession as you did

in Romania when you were escaping from

a long term lover who wanted to own you.

 

 

 

but then in the confession box

in your London church

you heard his voice and greased lightening

struck and now you are in love with this man

but help and mercy he is a catholic priest

and your love for him is overwhelming.

 

 

 

you send out waves of heat as you talk of

being on fire with love for this man who goes

to the gym and has a fine body

(what are you saying?)

a man twenty years older than you

but he's shy and tricky too.

 

 

I raise my hand to cut electric air

I need to stop you right there.

no just don't tell me any details

please, London is a small place

(it's shrinking by the second)

and I mustn't (and maybe nobody)

must know.

 

 

I try to say that

unrequited love can be a burden.

that perhaps this is prep for some

even more monumental love

coming your way.

 

 

my sister who lost me to this encounter

returns, she has cased the gallery.

 

 

sensing closure

your alluring dark eyes scan me intently

and from your thirty six year old wisdom

you say:

 

 

'I'm giving this seven years'

 

 

I need ten lifetimes to understand this stuff.

 

 

 

Liz Callingham