Ash {poetry for lent}

The first time, she is three.

I leave her in the folding chair, pacified,

her baby brother asleep on the linoleum floor beside her.

The sanctuary in renovations, we meet in the hall.

We kneel in turn, are marked

as those destined for death.

Mom, I want to get that too,

she says when I return.

Her cheek silk on mine.

Her breath milky sweet.

Her words obscured

by the pacifier between her teeth.

I lead her to the altar.

Together we admit her

into the company

of those who wither and fade

waiting for a rescuer.