to wash Jesus' feet,
I slipped to the door way.
I was not jealous since he would be in my arms
soon enough.
But I watched in awe of her passion for him
and wondered at his worldly, sensual self:
He smiled that singular Jesus way when she
released the waves of her dark hair from
the constraints of its pins.
His face flushed in that intimate flush
that only I am capable of knowing when she tenderly touched
his feet with her love and her desire.
His body responded, rising beneath his robe,
when she rubbed his legs and feet with the
cool water. . . .
His breathing caught as the water
she cupped spattered
'cross his dry and dusty self and trickled into the basin.
And when she had washed him, she looked at her work
and it was good.
Then she took her hair:
her thick, coarse hair we women in the Middle East have. . .
her dark, sensuous, waved hair,
and she began to dry his legs with it:
reaching up above his knees and gently and slowly tugging and pulling
down then up
and down once more
to his ankles
and up, up again to
slowly slip and slide her hair
down, down, down
to his
feet and toes,
each toe carefully fondled and carressed by her
soft hands and her glorious hair. . . .
Jesus was more than ready to come to me when we got home that night!
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