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The Confession
Robert VanderMolen
Citronella candles burning in vat-like pots.
He always wondered if she recalled
The distance of the evening, wafting odor of powerboats,
Seaweed, a floating perch, something that
Couldn't be identified—she never talked of it again.
He never inquired. For years strolling down to the shore
Through fish flies, sometimes feverish...
Swans cruising. Most people aren't special, she explained.
Even flatness has angles, he said. Where did you read that?
It was a mystery he never detected in her eyes.
Most people don't care, she added; I've always felt sorry
For those that do. Which means what exactly, he asked.
Don't be a chump, pour me a cognac.
One begins to doubt detail, moths congregating
On corrugated bark, even sobs of confession—
With sweat, aging water, smothering vegetation,
A flashlight cutting across a brook in cedar,
Something that vaults into rumor
Even when you know better
© 2006 Robert VanderMolen
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