Why I Think I'm a Writer

Stephen Dunn

God was listening, but even so
 I never told the truth
in confession. If I'd stolen candy

from Woolworth's, I'd say I took
 the Lord's name
in vain eleven times, Father,

since my last confession. If I'd
 been good,
I'd say I took the Lord's name

six or seven times. I knew the priest
 depended on sins
to feel good about his job,

but most of all I wanted to get back
 to the religion
of the schoolyard as fast as possible,

to epiphanous spin moves off the post
 and soft reverse layups.
Thus I never properly did penance

at the altar, two Hail Mary's
 instead of four,
a fast Our Father, maybe half

an Act of Contrition or Apostle's
 Creed.
I don't know why I never was afraid


of God and his famous penchant
  for punishment.
I don't know why Hell

didn't scare me, why it seemed
 like some movie
with special effects. Angels, though,

were real, like invisible friends
 you could count on.
I remember thinking angels could make

a shot go in, angels were what prayers
 were all about.
When my friend Brian said

he was going to confess to Father Kelly
 that he masturbated,
I told him look, no, don't stir up

Father Kelly, tell him you took
 the Lord's name in vain
three hundred times and were very sorry,

but Brian said God was listening,
 God knew,
and anyway he would be forgiven,

that was the thing about being Catholic,
 stupid, your sins
could be forgiven. I knew he was right,

but I went right on confessing
 to Jesus Christs,
goddamns, Christs Almighty, words

I never in fact said, but words I knew
 were the right words
for the occasion.