In the Absence of Confession
Laval Saint Roman
Under high sun, memory’s sharp lines etch
themselves between sky and not-sky.
Between a cough and what is not
a cough. If there are clouds, they’re
in a hurry. Malignant growth of footsteps
sneaking up: remember. In that silence
a fig falls from a tree into fine gravel.
What country is this, borders drawn
with daggers? Bees buzz
winter’s coming sins. Forgiveness
squeezed out on both sides of that sharp
bloodless line. Rain has its brief say
and moves on. Once, you listened.
Now, fig flesh glistens in your teeth.