February, 50 – 53 degrees? NYC, Ash Wednesday,

You on the phone making me laugh.

It is a solemn day though. The beginning of deepest, darkest Lent.

I even thought of giving you up but my will would not bear it;

One does not give up regardless of circumstance or convenience –

I’ve thought it through now, for what, years? More?

So you voice keeps ma laughing as I beat a path down 6^th

to solemn St. Xavier’s – Enough sounding like your name,

A good sign, surely. Coincidence this, on West 16^th and 6^th.

It is Catholic, not Episcopal – and this today will be,

besides, I’m half Jew, and you… well you… like me.

So why am I … here? … Why so purposefully

headed to have my forehead marked with last year’s

pronged, once glossy Palm Sunday burnt dark ash?

An East Village priest solemnly moves his thumb,

the signs the cross on my forehead and I am saved,

Well, marked anyway as any true believer.

A sinner, hence I am on display. A real museum piece.

I am the girl on her knees; she there until the bitter taste of sin dissolves.

I am the girl on her knees, she there praying for forgiveness for my very original sin.

Even the clergy cannot deny that I am not at least creative in this.

The dark covered altar, the Lenten purple linen draped cross.

Why even I ought be shrouded; face obscured by shaded veil!

All the sheeted mirrors. We’ll sit Shiva – hold hands bump knees.

We shall be serious, solemn in the moment and when that moment has passed

we will find true absolution in a kiss – simple this.

Even after St. Xavier I rang you back;

reportage of solemnity, you still laughing.

I felt, flush, alive, bright – and for all the wrong reasons.

You do that.

In word. in voice. this is you.

You lift the holy Lenten shroud when Lent has just begun.

You unsheet the mirrors.

You lift that veil I wear so well.

Why, whoever is that blonde girl in the silver-backed looking-glass?

With you – a Tungsten-bright Klieg-light – 10,000 volts of you.