I rub my thumb up each arch,
over the delicate bones of the toes.
Do I love this person, whose feet I wash?
Can I lift my head from this basin?
That's the hard part.
Kneeling is easy--
there's satisfaction in rubbing dirt from skin,
weighing a heel in my palm.
In the supplicant bend of my head
I find myself holy.
Bowing to the towel,
I wait for more feet.
I could wash all night,
light from white candles
crowning me. But washing
without seeing is blasphemy--
There is blood in the water,
mud from a road,
caked in the creases
of the person I love.
My feet, I do not love,
I dread the touch of water,
the music of your fingers.
And yet--
wash my hands,
my head, my mouth.
Where else can I go?
Your basin is full of fire,
full of blood,
winged things,
a stone from the first day,
formed in minutes.
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1 comment:
Lovely!
You keep getting better and better, and that is truly a high standard.
Your Auntie and I went to the Maundy Thursday service at our church.
Not many Baptist churches do that particular service.
Very solemn, the draping of the black mourning cloth and departing the sanctuary in silence.
My prayer was that next Easter, Ariel will be home to celebrate it with us. And all of his fellow warriors who serve unselfishly on foreign soil where they do not recognize the King of Kings.
Happy Easter to you, Martin and the girls!
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