Conscript stain of ash <br />glowing bruise-black, <br />ingrained by broad-thumbed priest. <br />Head stamped passport <br />to a Catholic redoubt, <br />leaving no room for doubt <br />which foot I kick with. <br />In oily paste I almost taste <br />this tribal scar branding me, <br />handing me <br />for one more year a clear <br />notion of what I am. <br /> <br />Who I am seems unimportant <br />so long as I stay congregated. <br />Hourly the scab of ash encrusts, <br />sloughing from my skin the thin <br />sins I have acquired and I am <br />mired in penitence for what <br />I did - and failed to do. <br />It leaves the holy ghost <br />of a mark, <br />pulsing as it cools <br />and healing begins <br />on that boyhood brow fevered by <br />this hot assault <br />on skin too thin. <br />Too thin <br />to bear this scorching faith.<br /><br />James Mills<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shibboleth/
