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.