THE BLACK BELL

The priest comes in his gown
dressed like a black bell,
but silent, silent.
And you lie in the hospital
that white country where
you can ignite like a brushfire
and nothing will burn but you.
He comes after the nurse
drains samples of blood
into long tubes, siphoning
the color from your hours.
He comes after your husband,
your son and daughter
have gone, leaving their pale flowers
everywhere.
He has risen up from your childhood
holding the Communion wafer
between his fingers,
so flat and white it glows.
But when you try to
throw off your fevers and
move toward him,
he withdraws.
Not yet, not yet, he says,
still holding out
for a full confession.