Tonight's Poet Corner: Purgatory

Purgatory
by Belinda Roddie

Why is it that, when I try to own up to mistakes,
all that I seem to ever do is overcompensate?
I am dredged in the wet flour of my sins, but still,
how sinful are they when the devil hasn't even declared
that they pass the literal smell test? When he sniffs,
his nostrils flare like those of a hormonal bull.

Disheartened am I, yet resolute I remain. I wear
the pain of my own neuroses on my shoulders like
a brand new coat. I celebrate my breakdowns as if
they were freshly declared holidays, and I, above everyone,
am aware of my own sense of carnal strength.

I wrote a novel the other day that was shorter than Death:
does that still make it a novel? How long do sagas have
to last before they're considered sagas, and I can take
up the spare throne alongside Beowulf and Gilgamesh -
this ruddy handsome Middle Eastern and Anglo-Saxon
behemoths holding the torch to an unfamiliar heaven,

who have slain dragons but accepted mortality like
an old friend? Does that old friend carry bags of ash
as if, should she water them enough, they will sow
seeds and take root? How much longer must I grow
before I feel finally, and fully, and humanely complete?