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Confession

By Sarah Janczak
Poetry•Vol. XXVIII No. 3 (Winter 2015)

I’ve already let him

walk across the shallow water

of my bedroom,

 

memorize the psalms

in my skull. We are married

eight months. I am scared

 

to call him husband. Holding cell,

steel mesh or concrete. Even

the smallest stones turned to bread.

 

We staple together

bank statements, tax returns,

my hair woven with his,

 

x-rays of our lungs,

fingerprints, love letters.

The woman in this office

 

guards the door. We wait

in small plastic chairs.

It is still cold outside.

 

I think of our nephew. I think

I wore the wrong outfit.

I wish I had paid

 

those parking tickets.

I forgot his favorite color.

What is his favorite color?

Sarah Janczak
Sarah Janczak has new poems in or forthcoming from Fjords, Tinderbox Poetry, and The Los Angeles Review. She lives in Austin, Texas.

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