Sorry for all these sins and the sins that I cannot remember
We sat in the backseat with linked pinkie fingers begging your mom to drive faster, the Virgin Mary bobble-head nodding with the rise and fall of the gravel road. That was until Confessional when you told the Priest of the time we lay in the dark under your Great Grandmother’s patch quilt, your parents drank white wine in the kitchen and laughed, you turned to me and asked if I had a training bra and suddenly we learned what our bodies could do. After that, you knew we were both going to hell, and you took my religion along with my heart. I still dream about you on certain nights in April. You turn around in your pew during Mass, and slip me a note. “It feels good,” it says, “to say it out loud.”
Brittany Clark is out there somewhere.