Poem for the Day: Maundy Thursday

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.