The Tomb, The Beast, The Sea (On The Occasion Of Ash Wednesday,2012) Poem by Gregg Stovicek

The priest hunched, with ash-blacked thumb,
Comfortable and sheepish in his jeans and
Tennis shoes, murmuring,
Hands hovering over the gifts.

What am I? The ash that clung
To the corpse of Lazarus come forth,
Or the heart that beat anew, coursing that
Thumb with blood?

Am I Peter, shirtless, with garment tucked,
in the midst of the leap,

Or am I Jonah, foot-splayed on the roiling deck?
Weeping -
at my foolishness,
weeping -
at the Love in which I am caught,
the Love that reaches me out
in the great gape of the beast,

that reaches me out
in the salt spray of the deep.

No, I am Peter, foot-deep in the swell,
Eyes on Him.

But for how long?

How long til I slip
And He reach his hand for me,
To grasp me in the crook of his staff,

In that goodness and kindness
which hound me relentlessly?

The priest straightened,
And with the ash, the thumb, the wheat,
I am raised,

Caught up in the tomb, the beast, the sea,
Caught up in Him
Who catches, catches,

And catches.