Ash Wednesday

I want to lick my thumb, and rub the ashes off
your perfect forehead. The priest who drew
it there probably licked his lips in anticipation
as you shuffled up the aisle, scuffing the church carpet
with your brand-new Vans, shuffling between grandmothers,
to have oil and ash smeared on your innocent
face by the trembling hands of a priest,
who probably forgot all his prayers
while gazing at the curve of your upper lip.