The color in the room was yellow.

I don’t know if I knew then why,

or that yellow is as much the color of nerves

as it is of cowardice, as I stood stiff-straight

in front of Father Panda and examined his face.

It was wide, porous, ruddy, full as a moon beneath

a wave of curly hair the color of the pews. 

We both wore white, he in his vestments,
 
me in my dress, all decked out
 
with the things I knew I must have done wrong.

From the vestibule, the smell of incense wafted in.
 
Outside the room I could hear the sound of children

trying hard to be quiet. A bit of holy water

splashed from someone’s finger to his forehead.

I was bad. I was definitely bad. I thought. The bell

tolled. Father Panda’s wide face split into a smile.

I amused him with my silence. I was not a sinner,

after all — was it possible? No. I gulped, stammered,

dug in: “I can’t think of anything.” That was the sin.
Jeanine Walker is our Poet in Residence for April.


Previously: As soon as the man says to the little girl, "I want to touch you,".