Across the first sea

Washing Of The Feet

You step into my studio, turn point and
swan your head low. “Oh, no!” you say.
I look down as you slip off open-toed
shoes, short-heeled black with leopard
print failing to camouflage graceless arches.

Smeared tar stain your toes and topfeet.
Here the miracles of water might play out:
the leper you changed to wine, a thousand
eyes drowned with light, the trilobites you
caused to sing cantatas in your holy name.

I set a kettle, daub olive oil onto terrycloth,
and begin erasing coastlines and beaches,
the relentless gnaw of a famished tide that
leaves black blood the world over to track
its wander deep into the unfathomed lands.

It is testing, divining what might be there
when it comes to take all, the few moments
we lavish here on this washing of feet, the
living waters we enslave to do our bidding
for no other reason than we can, we can.

Your sighs as the hot wrap lifts away all trace,
the blushed rose stemming from the bloom
of your returning spring, our eyes resting
past stinger and thorn as a pollination of trust
resets the sole and we step across the first sea.

Joseph Gallo
December 14, 2010