Ashamed of the Ash

by Brian C. Billings

The boys made fun of me when Lent would start.

They thought my tiny cross of ash was dumb.

My forehead smear would make me stand apart:

an altar boy, a goody-good, too smart . . .

and there was always more of that to come.

The boys made fun of me when Lent would start,

and even now I know the slurs by heart,

those cruel and careless pokes that left me numb.

My forehead smear would make me stand apart;

that twofold brand of Christ became a chart

to me that all could read from saint to bum.

The boys made fun of me when Lent would start.

I wished for Latin words that would impart

some sense of sympathy. Some scrap. Some crumb.

My forehead smear would make me stand apart.

Although I cried, no tears of mine could thwart

that unrelenting, stinging grade-school hum.

The boys made fun of me when Lent would start.

My forehead smear would make me stand apart.