596 - Holy Thursday

Holy Thursday
By Kathy Coffey

The gesture tunnels back to
sandy roads and dirty feet,
calloused under stream of water.
The master does a slave's task: his
cloak of divinity traded for a towel,
his hands massage unlovely anatomy.

The gesture unlocks our present: on
a frigid day, teenagers at a ski lodge
cluster around one, whose feet are numb
the toes bleached pearls: frostbite.
A boy rubs briskly, warms with breath.
She cringes; he cradles 'til the color comes.

The gesture goes beyond the book.
Wait, we want to protest, wash the feet,
young priest, don't kiss them too!
Past reason and rubric,
grace like liquid splashes the
dusty surface of our days.