GUILT
When I make my ornery confession,
circuitry vibrates with the orange pulse
of my crimes. Density of a half-blown
universe succumbs to swirl; cracks in its
surface reveal the bare, solitary
planet beneath us, a sad strip club in
Candy Land. Hale-Bopp screams through but we don’t
look; we plead true innocence and still drink
the last of the Kool-Aid. I am guilty
of an attitude problem, painting my
secrets blacker than yours, sleeping when the
heart train zips by, face catching that red light.
Once my trance dissolves I will taste wonder,
more moon than molecules, at last reformed.
Terry Wolverton is the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and nonfiction, most recently Wounded World: lyric essays about our spiritual disquiet. “Guilt” is the first entry in a new interactive blog, “Dis•Articulations,” http://disarticulations.wordpress.com. She encourages your participation in this blog.
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