Ash Wednesday on the 22-Fillmore Bus

Plow your tweener backpack into your fellow sinner.  I was fallen too.  Sulk into your years and cropped organdy nails. Everybody’s watching.  Your body’s burnt to ash,  to the stranger’s thumbprint on your stubborn pimples.  I see a younger you,  a candle-smoke ghost hardening into form,  fleshy knees and fists marbled at the altar rail. You’re still the baby  who asked no deliverance. We’re not fallen. We’re...

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