The starving artist
has got a hunger to fill.
Stepping forward
an assembly line
of writing prompts
dreading the sentence.
Is it venial or mortal?
This sin
I’ve placed myself in
knowing I’ve no palate for it
cleansed
in religious
interrogation rooms.
Tongue-tied
out, like Jabba the Hutt
struggling
awaiting that tasty wafer.
Standing, stone-like
she offers up nothing
but this stern gaze
of anticipation,
a scolding with her eyes.
Finger of fire
she impresses upon me
the sign of the cross
that all is not lost.
At first I don’t believe
that she gives a flying nun
but as I turn
and upon catching her eye
a curt slap
to the back of the head
she tells me to stop dawdling.
I smile,
wearing Ash Wednesday
like a badge of honor.
