Off the blog this Holy Week. Blessings to everyone.
based on Mark 14:6
In Memory Of Her
“Leave her alone.”
And for the rest of my life, they do.
They are not supposed to look at me, but
sidelong glances and traitorous sounds tell them
I am crying,
and words I want to say are choked, stillborn.
I couldn’t tell them how I knew
unless they, too, saw it was obvious
that he was not meant to stay with us forever.
He seemed to know it that day,
the way he ate so slowly, deliberately,
staring at people, boring into their eyes,
the occasional pause, blink,
seeing something we could, or would, not.
He was with us and not,
and I knew: it was time.
So I rushed to get the jar of spikenard,
and stepped over reclining men,
to his place.
With a pleading glance, I knelt down,
cracked the seal,
and poured out a portion, then the whole, of my hope
on his head, and then his feet.
Kneeling in fragrant mud, I wept
with the knowledge of what I had done:
I have given my future
To this man, who will die.
As that perfume filled the room,
He smiled, touched my chin, lifting it, and addressed me:
…you will not always have me
She has done what she could
anointing my body for burial
Amen, I say to you
wherever the gospel is proclaimed
what she has done will be told….
So I was left alone by men.
No one understood, then;
truth, I barely understood myself.
But in that gift, my center shifted
And I knew
despite his coming death
that I was meant to be alone, for him, somehow.
All that strange sabbath,
after the catastrophe,
I cradled the broken jar,
in the tang of lingering scent,
as I hoped.