The black cross that a thumb smudged
on my forehead on a Wednesday
drew stares in the world but no derision,
no suggestion of uncleanness.
It told everyone I’d made a vow
to give a dear thing up for forty days
because I didn’t think I’d make it
that long in the desert on my own.
I wouldn’t have objected to an eye roll
here and there. The text is adamant
about not practicing your piety
in order to be seen, and what’s a black cross
smack dab in the middle of your forehead
but a plea for one’s attention as you pass?
The season and the ritual keep me
coming back each year, the weirdness
of the marking and the going forth
as though I were the poor goat
on whose head the annual accumulation
of the village’s impurities and sins
was put, the goat who smelled
the blood and burnt flesh of the offerings
as he was led out to the desert, left there,
separate from the village nonsense,
wondering in goat terms what now.