Holy Thurdays undo me.
Not so much the washing
as the offering of self,
the letting others know through
shedding socks and shoes like sin.
It seems a lifetime since
I nightly buffed your old scuffed shoes
and set them by the door,
my small child's way of saying
every day is holy.
Now your old bent feet
cause the years to fall away
like cool dry skin
until I am undone again.
These days if I could,
I'd wash you with my tears;
I'd use my hair to
wipe away our sin.
