Poetry: Sunday Confessional

 

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Sunday Confessional

Sweet to write everyday

but I have no love yet.
Sometimes I stare at my feet
and then I don’t.

The bus passes a graveyard
framed by the city;
I want to be buried in the river between.

Underneath my clothes are breasts
and hair and skin
and if I don’t forsake them,
I fear I’ll lose myself.

The confessional poem
makes me less like a wind-up doll.
But I still run for the bus
and am breathless
when late.

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