Tony Ruin Speaks to a Priest

To be honest sir
when I came breathless through
those big arched doors
and saw Mary and her baby electric
in the window
blue and yellow and red
I crossed myself,
hoping I wasn’t dead.

And now you smile at me like I have been here before
but never before have I seen you smile.
Why do your chapped lips
stay so sad and silent?
I’ll just have to shed more trapped secrets
so you can silently recoil,
your oily handshake still sticky on my skin.

Burdens rise to my throat like
last night’s scotch and cigarettes and
earnest w***e kisses.
I’ll bet you didn’t know I burned her hands as payment.
(Oh she was okay with it).
Fine dime-shaped burn bruises,
much like the ones she paints on her thighs
nights she feels most used, unmoved.
How can you sit so close sir
when my booming pulse is darting
inch to next inch under my skin
almost like an itch?
I only scratch at night.
Just another secret of mine.

Where to begin?
The old man kneeling in the last pew
has five pink spots covering his bald head.
Death’s blotchy valentines,
foreplay.
Or maybe just its reminders.
Like the pink post-its on my ex-wife’s fridge.
Next Thursday is recycling.
Anne and Tom coming over tonight. Find good china.

Let me bring you up to speed.
Yesterday I emptied my most important drawer
onto the linoleum floor of my rented kitchen.
I looked over everything I could lose
and saw nothing I hadn’t believed I’d lost already.

And now the chorus is practicing!
Angel, look up it says.
Angel, look up you say.
Angel, look up?
I have. Oh I have.
All I see is this moment.
You checking your watch.
You looking past and through me
to the open door,
to the man in the last pew
comfortably praying.
Angel, look up?
All I see is blue.
A burning brilliant
beggar of a blue.
So earnest and timeless
I have to shield my peeled, vigilant eyes
with my own decaying
shaking hand.