“And a woman in the town who was a sinner…stood behind Him at His feet, weeping, and began to wash His feet with her tears.”- Luke, the physician
I skipped across rocks, and balanced
on concrete paths across the water.
My two hundred dollar sneakers
gripped crap-covered stones.
I leapt off a tire for dry gravel
and fell short, left foot sinking
into the river of sludge—
into the dark, fizzing pool, miles
from my camp.
Then silently, she came from the rubble
with a basin like we use to wash our dog.
She skipped over tires floating
in rain, trash, and sewage,
careful not to slide
into the bubbling black muck
as I had moments before.
She offered her rarest,
clear, drinking water
so my rich-white-man shoes could be cleaned.
But the grime clung
like the wealthy to their cash,
and I could not wash
it myself.
So, she took my shoe
and meticulously scraped
mud, waste, and mire
from its tongue, top, and sole
until it shined like Caribbean ocean.
Like grace and its fountain
rain down on the dirty,
the gift of her water
made my black shoe white.
I came to help the thirsty,
and the thirsty washed my feet.
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