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This is where I come to pay penance for the sins of the flesh
Among those who cross with cool purpose between stations
Of quiet service, who weigh their burden in iron clasped close
To the chest or lifted on outstretched arms,
Whose invocations are controlled inhalations and exhalations,
Their call and response a heft and release in reps and sets
        Converting pain to strength.

While I, a novice barely bold enough to lift my eyes
From off the mat where my sweat drips and palms stick,
On bended knees avert my gaze from greater mysteries –
Faith, salvation and doctrinal technicalities –
To rejoice in the forgiveness of the flesh, cleansed and blessed.
What is enacted is embodied, bringing to light
The slow burn of bright coins long hidden with which I hope to pay
        The prodigal’s return.

© Frances Bathgate, May 2009