Wednesday, March 01, 2006

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
into my heart
by those who loved too little
or not at all.

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