So I wouldn’t forget even one of the sins

from the Table in my prayer book, I wrote them down

and recited them from a notebook page

I unfolded in the confessional, squinting to rea

in that tight, dim space, the priest straining to remain patient.

On the way home, my pocket burning with sins,

I ripped the page into the smallest possible pieces

and released them from the bridge, watching them

drift life confetti from high windows

onto the same river that washes over my pale body

this August afternoon sixty years later.

Called in as I stood on its banks,

I stripped and waded out to a deep pool,

dove and rose, lay on my back

staring into the dazzle of light.

A weight I was unaware of bearing

carried away,

I floated on the forgiving water.