Adultery

A room full of seven-year-olds

are memorizing the ten commandments.

They sit, eyes fixed on illustrated

poster-sized pages, bound

with thou shalts and

thou shalt nots printed

in black block letters.

 

Sister speaks, the class repeats,

“The sixth commandment is

Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

The class echoes back, as she rushes on,

but in the space between

I raise my hand and ask,

 

“Sister, what’s adultery?”

 Furiously flipping the page, she intones,

“The seventh commandment is…”

My cheeks burning, shamed and scarlet,

I study each word

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

 

I struggle toward a solid conclusion:

if adult means you are a grown-up,

adultery means you are

pretending to be a grown-up.

A commandment just for children.

 

With the realization of

my frequent sinning, I begin

examining my conscience:

How often have I played dress-ups?

or pretended to be a doctor,

a nurse, a teacher, a secretary?

 

Mental tally held

in my memory,

shaking and afraid, I join

my classmates filing into the church

lit only by the red flame

of the sanctuary candle

burning for our sins.

 

Forty second graders cram into four pews

silently waiting to seek

forgiveness in the

velvet-curtained confessional.

The murmurs of transgressions

like incense fill the air.

 

I kneel, make the sign

of the cross, then stammer, “Bless me, Father,

for I have sinned. This is my first confession

and I have lied to my parents about 20 times,

fought with my brothers and sisters about 17 times,

and committed adultery 35 times.”

 

After a brief silence punctuated by a sigh,

Father Riley assigns my penance,

two Hail Marys and one Our Father.

Leaving me to believe in

the truth of my innocence,

he forgives me all my sins.

Ann Bracken,

blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/pick-of-the-week August 15, 2021