SOAP

 

God only knows what casual blasphemy

or stubborn refusal of chore had tumbled out,

but there I was, a child of four, made

to kneel upon the smoke-yellow linoleum

of the bathroom floor, a fresh white bar

of soap clenched between my teeth.

I was instructed only to wait. To speak directly

to the Lord and await his forgiveness.

I cannot say whether it came, or not, only that

the wait dragged on for what felt like hours,

a thousand years to the Creator being one day.

The soap did not make my mouth feel

any cleaner, nor make what came out of it

lighter, every uncertain lisp and stutter floating

like bubbles up toward the heavens.

I tasted only shame, a chemical bitterness

lasting the whole length of the day.

I understood words to be weighted things,

meant to be avoided whenever possible,

and God the Father, forever holding

his tongue, to always be listening,

always ready to silence with the back of a hand,

a sword, or a book thrown suddenly open.