Confession
Confession appeared in the winer issue of After-Thought Literary Journal.
For all who died in the Troubles in Northern Ireland, but most especially for peaceful protesters murdered by English paratroopers on January 30, 1972, a day subsequently known as Bloody Sunday.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one year since
my last confession. One year since I could speak without sins
on sins, death on death, pain and dark nights and bless me, Father.
The car bomb tearing through the child waiting for bread to feed his dying
mother: I knew he was there—Father, bless me. I poured the nails myself,
knowing they would rip flesh, knowing they would shed blood:
it has been one year since my last confession. It started with stones—
so easy to throw, so easy to run, to strike a blow for freedom.
And then the Paras came.
Because to be Irish is to be less than English; because to be Catholic
is to be less than human. What school did you go to? they ask when
you look for factory work: what school did you go to? And you can just
forget saying Saint Anne’s or Saint John’s or Saint Anybody’s if you want
that job. This place: the poverty, the despair, who would think
you could love it so much? love it so much you could kill for it, die for it,
the city walls and the Bogside, love it with every sinew of your body,
every beat of your heart, love it more than life itself?
And then the Paras came.
They stood on the city walls: did you see them, Father? High above
the people marching in the street. Like birds of prey on high branches,
like birds of prey, they came down at us fast, and they started shooting.
You know the names, Father: shot from behind, crawling to safety,
reaching to help another, shot over and over again, shot in the head,
shot in the back, shot in the heart, bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Twenty-six people they shot, and not a one of them carrying a gun,
carrying a stick, carrying a bomb. Twenty-six shot, fourteen dead,
mothers grieving putting boys into dark Irish soil: bless me, Father.
And then the Paras came.
Now I carry the guns. Now I make the bombs.
I know the names of the twenty-six. What I don’t know is the name
of that child standing beside the car waiting for bread. It has been one
year since my last confession, one year since I could kneel and speak
without blood on my soul. One year since the Paras came.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned:
and I will do it again.