That there are incalculable
silences
between stars,
where the blank
that stares back at you
benevolently regards
the offenses
you've carried outdoors
in your head,
ought to remind you
of Catholic
school confessions—
kneeling
before screens of that black,
muted fabric
and waiting
for some litany of
rote interrogations
to reach inside
and soothe your seething
reservoir of poison.
Only, this time,
instead of that bid
to confess,
your hope is that
this tapestry
may yet
disarm you
with quite a different
set of questions:
How have you been
scarred, my friend?
And how long
has it been since then?
And did you not
invite that knife in?
And if so,
for what reason?
