“Shades, perhaps, on their way to untie the knot of what they owe.”

Purgatorio, XXIII, 14-15

He breaks from the huddle, mouth full of blood
From the braces shredding the inside of his lips
And lines up at halfback. October’s red

Descends on the flaming maples girding the field,
Cold wind from western Kansas flats
Slaps his mind. Focus on the snap count,

Veer to the pitch and swing around right,
Race to the darkening goal line,
And, strangely, it’s Agnes, patron saint of church and school,

Bloody, bloody girl, beheaded but not deflowered.
And it’s Michelle Arnold, freckled with tiny flames
Licking her milk-white skin like Lenten votives candles.

Was she full of the grace that was all around us,
Or did she too feel the slow unspoken burn of the skin,
Barely covered by her perfect sweater, her books

Hugging her chest in the chattering hallway?
He whirls around the end, leaves swirling like lead blockers.
Breaking free, he feints the brooding linebacker,

Dances the sideline, running from death
Toward desire, or is it the other way around?
Or does it even matter in the end?

So it’s “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My
Last confession was two hours ago.” He whispers
Impure thoughts and impure acts into the darkness,

Receives the old priest’s wine-soaked blessing,
The penance, and “Go in peace, my son.”
Breathing again, but knowing too, it’s all sin

Staining his bleeding soul, taunting the dying Christ,
Edging him beyond the host’s circumference
Where darkness and fire bite and chew.

And it’s recess, even for eighth graders, and he wonders
If Michelle will make the gift of raising her
Sudden blue eyes, and it's “Applecore, Baltimore,

Who’s your friend?” with gnawed browning cores
Zinging at the cruelly uncool hovering on the edge
Of the inner ring. And, finally, it’s “Dies Irae”

And “Duke of Earl,” as he stands before the seventh
Station of the Cross: “Jesus Falls the second time,”
Smelling the singe of his hairline as he holds

The candle steady, the old priest chanting
The suffering Christ, bloody, bloody sacred heart,
Tiny flames dancing into the waiting world.

Phil Dansdill

Phil Dansdill is a retired high school English teacher who is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Northern Michigan University. He has published poems in The English Journal, The Connecticut English Journal, The Leaflet, and Blurb.