Confession Copyright © Elisabeth Rowe 2010

Once I stole a small cut glass salt cellar
from a boring shop in Sheringham:
I took a fancy to it,
cycled home past the wide accusing marshes
bent like a bed of reeds.
All night the huge policemen stalked my dreams.
Next day I cycled back,
found the small disc of guilt in a film of dust
and put the damn thing back.

Once a hot water bottle burst in my grandmother’s bed:
I folded the rubbery stained sheets
beneath my child’s body
and slept in shame.

Once I went to church to stare prayerless
at the priest’s fingers, lusting religiously.

Once I superimposed another’s face on the face of love,
bit blood to stop another’s name escaping.

Once I faked it – well, actually, more than once.

Once, perched on a branch that overhung
the old A 20, I dropped an apple
straight through the sunroof of a passing car,
watched juices splitting, the car swerving madly,
tasted a murderous joy.

Once I touched my father’s dead face
in the coffin in the morning room;
his flesh dimpled like pressed dough
and would not rise again.