on holy thursday
father schaffer washes 
12 of our feet

in memory of the last supper

i was always glad it wasn't me

i could almost
feel his dry cracked hands
move over my pinkish heels--

toe nails cliffs melting
into the sea

sometimes i'd brush
against his skin as an altar server
holding the bowl of water
as he'd wash his hands 
before communion

i was glad it wasn't
me because i felt like i
could never deserve that--

i couldn't imagine
making the white-haired 
coat-hanger of a man kneel--

draped in purple lenten robes--

a crocus sobbing in the morning grass

in front of the altar
he washed the parishioners 
feet in round metal bowls

they remind me now of the mixing
bowls my mother & i used to 
soak our feet in peppermint scrub
from the soap shop--

green plastic chairs in the living room

watering becoming luke warm then cold,
removing them my skin seemed to breath--

dripping on the carpet

i think my mother deserves someone
to wash her feet

maybe not father schaffer or even jesus

someone who'd be gentle

we share callouses like wishing stones
but there aren't wells deep enough
for us to drop in--

so then was he jesus, is that the idea?

or is the symbol that we should
all wash each other's feet?

i have always made my soles dirty
on purpose--

august dusk chewing my heels

stomp onion grass & whirligigs--

if our priest were to wash my feet 
what would he find in me?

would he press deep into 
my arches-- 

find us on the back porch-- 

sky throbbing orange 

or would he trace the 
creases of my feet like a palm 
reading

would he say:

& here are your sons 
& your daughters & all
your future lovers--

do i walk on them like branches?

oh father whose apostle am i?

if there were
to be twelve of me 
which one would kiss & betray us?

i don't want to be clean
or for you to wash me--

i want to thrive peppermint--
i want to open my mouth wide as a crocus

swallowing swallowing 
swallowing
stones