Shibboleth Poem by James Mills

Conscript stain of ash
glowing bruise-black,
ingrained by broad-thumbed priest.
Head stamped passport
to a Catholic redoubt,
leaving no room for doubt
which foot I kick with.
In oily paste I almost taste
this tribal scar branding me,
handing me
for one more year a clear
notion of what I am.

Who I am seems unimportant
so long as I stay congregated.
Hourly the scab of ash encrusts,
sloughing from my skin the thin
sins I have acquired and I am
mired in penitence for what
I did - and failed to do.
It leaves the holy ghost
of a mark,
pulsing as it cools
and healing begins
on that boyhood brow fevered by
this hot assault
on skin too thin.
Too thin
to bear this scorching faith.