I Am Ash on Wednesdays by Sogol Sur

Poetry by Sogol Sur

Maybe it’s Eliot’s fault

All Wednesdays feel ashy to me now

feel ashy? More like

a bucket of ash – my mother’s and my desires

poured over my head, my eyes

become tears. The ashes itch and blind

me. I see ash, feel ash, breathe ash

everywhere I look has been tarnished

by ash. But what am I claiming?

I cannot look

I cannot see

I am blinded by

Ash. Soft grey yet

detrimental to my health

I try to vociferate as

ash fills my mouth and I

fight to breathe.

Fight? Another lie

Why do I pretend to be strong when

all it takes to transform me into flames and consequently

ashes is just a word. A dart-shaped word.

Why do people plan so hard to harass me when

I am made of porcelain; all it takes

is for a breeze to push me a little hard

I fall from my comfortable table and

shatter. Never to be mended

Shards of sharp ceramic mixed with soft ash

my kohl black blood is a stream of bullets raining

from the ash sky of Wednesdays

Ash Wednesday?

Did he mean the religious matter?

I do not care. I listen to him bleed and I

let the sense of doom and despair swallow me

for there is nothing again and

it dawns on me that I do not desire

to exist on Wednesdays.