In the middle of the week,
I have ash on my cheek:
finger-smeared above my eyes
and applied by crying sweat-shake rasps
and gestures of sighs.
I thought, there’s nothing fast about forty days
or the pain of paying penance.
The loneliest bar on Marti Gras,
the night before, lodged apprentices of men
and hid between hills and coast
they toasted: killing the prey
before the day of repentance.
In turn, each apprentice and each toast
burned quickly the sickly and weak
til the burning passed
and finger-smeared on cheek turned
toasting into ash.
I used to know her heartbeat
and could pick it from a line-up;
if it drove past I could quickly
call its model
all gears and pipes and throttle.
All theives and thugs and apprentices of men.
I hear her heartbeat hurts and
quickly slowed passed the pat and pat
I knew was hers.
I think she thinks something burned to ash
and fast away she slowed.
I thought, I know you; I last;
and the ash only quickens
and apprentices become men
and if your heartbeat slows and even stills,
I know it still
and I’ll fix it.
—————-
David J. Gilbert
