God wore a purple stole

Over his shoulders, over the brown

Habit that sometimes reeked

Of sweat. He had a halo round his

Balding pate as I peered through

The screen of the confessional,

He was Franciscan and Spanish,

And spoke Bikol with an accent—

Strange and stentorian with

Lots of th’s, aspirated, tongue

Between the teeth—gesturing with

His white hands: thumb, index,

And middle finger extended,

Ring and pinky folded: Writing

A cross in the air: Forgiveness

Was tender even if he rolled his r’s

In Patawarrron ka nin Dios,

Penance was benign and generous

For the white lies, the sins mastered

With my cathechist, while hell fire

Was reserved (a whole round

Of the Sorrowful Mysteries,

Or helping clean up the sacristy)

For “playing with myself.”