ash wednesday
how small is the door
leading to hunger
it’s a normal day,
almost – no organ
is playing, just an old electronic
piano. What did they burn
to make those ashes? who did confess
the broken lamb?
ash wednesday. we’re waiting
in line, the priest
takes the ashes from a little bowl
of white ceramic
(in my dreams it’s golden
and incense fumes, heavy,
drag around culpability) the priest
crosses my forehead (oily skin
I own some skin products I never use
I’m thirteen and hungry
hunger will make me
frail and soft I’ll be
weeks and months of lent
but for now my skin’s oily and my limbs shaky)
the priest
crosses my face with ashes as gray
as the old movies I fall asleep to
ash wednesday
hunger’s door is white and gold
think of the poor think about sin
think about all forbidden earthly goods
must be good not to be
carved from the inside out even though
I know it to be the right
thing to do
I’m too young
to fast, though –
my mother does it
my father doesn’t. I don’t even know
if he believes in anything – I don’t
I want hunger for the sake of it
howling around with bleached bones
I’ll be the welcome spirit
the spirit of hunger!
ash wednesday
I leave the church with some gray dust
spread all over my face. I’ll wash it off
at home; it makes me sneeze –
so long, ash wednesday,
so long.