Father O'Sinner

Father O'Sinner

Father O’Sinner is not his name (not quite),  

Though it should be and not O’Connor,  

Which was the name bestowed by his stepdad,  

Who drank and killed himself aged forty.

Here he lies this foggy midnight on the cradle  

Of his drears and prayers. Faith does not  

Fructify; it is dirty. On a mattress  

Hard his rump  

Swells, bruises  

His core parts, the body revolts  

Amidst all this blasting and mildew.  

Life gone old and fat around the waist.  

A thought exercises the mind  

That would shock the pope to his knees:  

The sin against the holy spirit,  

No longer believing  

In God’s power to save.  

What secrets man conceals  

In the folds of his breast,  

Forbids him to rest.  

Faith departs and the dark clouds beckon.  

Oh, not this please, yes  

And this morning’s congregation:  

Four old ladies wet with rain and a rough sleeper  

(Stench of wine about his lips)  

And an old Covid joke about beholding  

The sacred antibody. Yes, it’s a joke.  

His past, future and present can be gathered  

All at once in a cheval glass:  

Bedroom mirror shows a body: that is all.  

It does not show the soul.  

Let this reflection pass.  

Once he saw a sky shimmering  

Blue over a red sea but the waves didn’t part,  

Or if they did, they must have parted  

Five miles down the coast.  

So, he lies there and ponders his lonely heart.  

Feeling like a hare snagged on a post,  

The nail inches deep;  

Or a plant dying in a black hole,  

Down among the worms in a vineyard  

Without a keeper, now like a grave.  

The stem is dry of sap,  

He will not rise;  

He cannot be sprung from this trap.