Maundy Thursday
‘Beautiful are the
feet of the swallow
folded unseen past the
mountain’—
or Blessed are the
feet
of him who brings good
tidings—
Denise
Levertov
“Feet”
Or:
Bless the hands that tuck
the blade
over and under the toe-
nail, whose age and hunkered weight
are huddled in the nailbed
erupting up, when the scissor
comes through, sweet sour nausea
but moving on moving on.
This is :
medical care for men on the solitary
block,
submitting
their feet so close to the cheek
so close indeed
they see the freshly dug
ear canal, the laid down hairs
rising—
This is: a nurse
practitioner, a slight
man and quick with a reputation
for liking Bruce
Lee movies and as much as they may
want to they don’t won’t Fuck
with him. Not because
of the closed
circuit tv. Not
because it would add
to their already lifetime
sentence but: he’s so
feathergentle, the way he holds each
toe, the way, barehanded,
his palms and thumbs rub
the sole
rub between each, peeling
skin away.
It’s a whole new revival.
It’s the one time they sit still
in a room without shitting
razorblades. It’s
breath and lavender
soap and water and, when the trim’s
finished, a soft vein-blue towel—not prison
issue, towels this priest brings in
lays
out in front of the guard
flat as
uncut,
unleavened
communion
dough,
a towel
for each
inmate,
and
three pedicure tools:
two
hands
and
tiny, really- for- an- infant
clippers
he by some miracle and skill
uses
to slice through
their
fist hard calluses
and
knuckled horns.
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