aschermittwoch

form: poem
completed: ash wednesday 2005
notes: the first piece that frightened my mother

It began a few weeks prior
with a quiet murmur circulating
through the more pious of the school:
'I won't eat sweets'
'I won't fight'
'I won't lie'
swollen promises from swollen mouths.
The day before was racket;
a din of song,
a flash of beads,
and cakes in the dining hall.
Shrove Tuesday:
one last chance for gluttony,
vanity, sloth,
before the black shrouds and silence.
I watched from afar,
fascinated and terrified,
troubled and impressed.

The next day
we were herded like cattle into the chapel
silent as the grave and stone.
The old stooped priest whispered words
of doom and tragic endings.
Then one by one, they went,
and knelt before him, afraid,
and he wiped dirt across their faces
and shouted to the world,
You Are Dust.

They fell to the ground,
hurled by his words,
and crawled back up
and sat back down.
I did not go, but hid
in the darkest corner of the room,
eyes wide and worried.
This was not a world of mine;
this was not a world for me.

All day long they passed me by
with black crosses above their eyes,
marked by what they could not see...
but they glared at me.
I, who was my own, was an enemy.
I, who kept quiet,
who took what knowledge I could with blood and tears,
was wrong.
And the words given to them
in a moment of 'faith'
were thrown at me in scorn.
You Are Dust.
To Dust You Shall Return.