Confession

Just one time, in a friendly way with this sweet woman,
her arm in your arm, no brassy politics,
apply yourself with tenderness to the memory of your own fears
solemnly, like a river at night,
it’s late but try anyway, there’s no medal, or even a job
we know you’re full of tears
we’re not asleep, we’re restless for the truth.

We didn’t sit on our porches waiting for you to grow up,
you moved like a furtive cat, your ear to the door,
while we were watching the clouds, not you.
There’ll be no coup, no ultimate liberty, no crystal clarity.
From your chair, no rich and sonorous voice only a painful squeak
captive, plaintive, then combative
no guilt, no remorse, only sounding brass, tinkling cymbals
like a chastised child, somber and immobile
having to face his family.

Your certainties are a long shot
you’re caught in the eye of the world
secrets no longer hidden in the past.
‘Poor Angel’ some sing, your pardoners’ charade
‘There’s nothing here, nothing certain, we’ll take care of you.’

Betrayed by your own ego, not a beautiful woman,
one you tried to turn banal,
now you dance to a fool’s tune:
his forced handshake
and maniacal smile.
He breaks our hearts and soils everything
with rhetoric of scorning then forgetting
no enchantment, no longing
no thoughtful love
only con games, whispers, and then silence.
There will be no confession.

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About Gesture Press

The poetry of Nicholas Power and his reviews of singular poems in a sequence titled Cadence.
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