Daily dust over the jagged
stair steps of toes, between the cracked
skin; heels bruised by heat,
small toes stoned by cobblestone.
The wrong one is kneeling,
sprinkling water over the wounded,
a stream of fingers cleaning disciples' feet
as boils and blisters burst with new
covenant balm of blood and bread.
Holes as oval as this
lopsided earth, the black skin
of space filling in with red
against the spike that fastens
tendon to tree, bone to board,
skin and sin to sacrifice and servant.
In the human/divine pores: pain,
prophecy, the prodigal and unrepentant.
Their sounds pound the galaxies;
nowhere to walk or run
but Thy will be done.
calluses washed clean
with the converted Centurion's crying,
arch and ankle wrapped
for the new tomb hewn
from a rich man's cave,
the Savior-slave rots,
descends to the depths
of paradox, cleanses
each brimstone foot
of the dead and damned.
he has abandoned the sepulchre.
Clover between his toes,
he hoes the graveyard garden
waits for the women
to come with scents and spices.
The unrecognized one,
afterwards he watches them run,
hysterically hollering hallelujah!