from "Ashes" by Elizabeth-Anne Vanek
You thumbed grit
into my furrowed brow,
marking me
with the sign of mortality,
the dust of last year's palms.
The cross you traced
seared, smudged skin,
and I recalled
other ashes
etched
into my heart
by those who loved too little
or not at all.
into my furrowed brow,
marking me
with the sign of mortality,
the dust of last year's palms.
The cross you traced
seared, smudged skin,
and I recalled
other ashes
etched
into my heart
by those who loved too little
or not at all.
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