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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem