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It used to be so easy:

Three Our Fathers
Two Hail Marys
One Glory Be

Saturday morning
Soft black mantilla
Pearl rosary beads
Clutched prayer book

Enter quietly
Genuflect reverently
Wait patiently

Wait and pray
Wait and remember
Wait and bare all

"Bless me, Father,
for I have sinned.
It has been one week
since my last confession." 

If needed,
Write them down
But tell them all
Every last one 

Must not
Do not
Will not
Forget any of them

Wait to hear those
Words that will make
Everything whole and right again:

"Your sins are forgiven, my child.
Go and sin no more."

All now
Absolved
Pardoned
Forgiven

Three Our Fathers
Two Hail Marys
One Glory Be

Leave this sanctuary of forgiveness
Contrite
Determined
Whole

Until,
Quite by mistake,
They happen again
And again
And again...

Transgressions multiply
And fly upward
Like ashes on the wind

The celebrated rites of Saturday's child
Fade away;
Their sacred healing balm
No longer holds
Meaning
Purpose
Comfort

Too much
To see
To feel
To experience
To be

        ~~~~~~~

Saturday morning
Mantilla is forsaken
Rosary is misplaced
Prayer book is rejected
His name is remembered
But only spoken now
In vain
In anger
In the quest to impress

Where did that child go?
Does she even remember?
Who forgives her now?
Does she even care?

Three Our Fathers
Two Hail Marys
One Glory Be

It used to be so easy.
 
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