the gift

it was then that you gave me your crown,
still fresh with your blood
and sharp like sour wine.
clothed in hallowed robes, your servants
blessed the holy water
and bathed my heathen forehead.
it was then i took your crown,
in the year of our lord
nineteen eighty seven.
my belated entrance into righteousness:
baptized in your misery.

the years toiled on like roman slaves.
sundays in st. monica’s basement
the morning passed in repentence,
plastic rosary in hand and leviticus
upon my untrained lips.
later i ascended, head bowed,
to your realm of gold and crimson
and disappeared among the mahogany pews,
one face among a sea of contrition.

clear as the morning bells rang
the voice of our most sanctified shepherd,
deep and resonant and filled with flame
calling out your name,
entreating arms outstretched in prayer.
and one by one our transgressions marched
like prisoners across his solemn tongue
in tones of shame and rage,
your remorseful burden laid square
upon our wicked shoulders.

bent in pious genuflection i took the arid,
tasteless bread, eager for deliverance,
and every week a new confession, wrung
from between the claustrophobic walls in which
that faceless voice boomed in accusation
like the coming apocalypse.
and heavy grew the barbed circlet
that graced my skull,
and there you pushed deep the thorns:
your gift to me,
a thankless mortal casualty.

as such, i return,
a stranger in your sanctuary,
paying homage to that pointed finger
familiar like my own reflection.
before your agonized impression
i bow and breathe, the tang
of smoke from gilded censers
choking me with serpent strength,
sweet with your opiate fragrance.

at length i kneel
in veiled submission, to lay my crimes
at your feet as offerings:
envy for gold
pride for frankincense
anger for myrrh
each one prized like deepest faith
and just as fragile,
talismans that served me well
beneath the glare of condemnation,
glimmering in the silhouette
of your cold shoulder, still turned,
ignorant to the damage done.

regard now this errant one;
look upon me and
feel in my supplication my good
old-fashioned catholic guilt
and lay your holy hand upon me
my savior, clever traitor.
you are the light, and the sin,
and the way,
and i your most wayward child
borne from your circle and reared
in the shadow of your listless gaze

and i wear your crown.