as from an alabaster jar

The woman who washed His feet . . .

as from an alabaster jar

Oh! gypsy beauty (thee rag doll of pastel linens)

Such intricate patterns of distraction and bronze décor

Act as thy divine cosmetics of ivory and claret -

P o w d e r i n g thy covert sins in harlot garb.

(Dost thou bathe in such ambiance of pure seduction?)

(Or dost thou choke upon the cheap musk trailing thy feet?)

Thy feet - thy soles - oh such pearly ovals tainted in dusky gloom!

Oh! thy feet – so battered upon the prisms of glass shards

C r u n c h i n g beneath thy dainty heel steps

As the fluid trails thy walkway in a scarlet rainbow.

Yet, ‘tis not in thy nature, pretty flower, to whimper

Whilst the serpent eyes cast vases from clay windows

And onto thy twilight path – ah, but such a trail is known!

Oh so familiar to such eyes that seek thy fragile body -

Thy body when the evidence of face is shadowed beneath dark

And only the Crescent peers into such souls of men.

And now, oh red letter saint, thee tramp upon their guilt

(The guilt naked beneath the still visible firmament)

Oh and they s h u d d e r in carnal – in filthy WANT!

Dost thou f r i g h t e n them, tiny gypsy?

 

 

Oh, sweet temptress, thy horror betrays thee!

Thy mortification manifested within russet pupils

Begs thee to flee! flee! flee! little sparrow!

Escape to thy haven of soiled bed sheets

Nestled within thy abode of fornication’s pleasure.

Flutter away and cower until the eve from such irises

(The black on white rape thee with bestial lust)

And like creatures they ravage thy grave

So D E E P

Catacombs long buried of celestial innocence

(Chastity doth not thrive within thy veins any longer!)

Nay, thee hath been r u i n e d as the temple walls,

So c r a c k e d with naught but worming vines

Choking thee within habitual repetition – aroundaround;

Such tiny creepers bind thee to fleshy desires

(To bask in singular nightly devotion and vows of affection).

Ay, but then why dost thou tremble as thee traverse such –

Such corners so proverbial within the recesses of thy mind?

Raking carved nails across thy scalp without warning of seduction,

Thee cradle thy tiny humble jar to thy breast . . .

 

 

And into the den of holiness thee dare to tread, tiny gypsy!

Amidst the men of repute and hands of blessed piety,

Thee grace – disgrace? – the noble entrance. . .

S h a k i n g upon chalky knees before mud puddle eyes

(Burning, crimson shame crests thy cheeks in earnest want)

And thee seek with such deceased gazes for He whom thee hath heard,

Hath learned from alley rabble of parables and compassion

Bestowed without tax or signature contracts to the least of spirits.

Ah! But they scorn thee with repulsion, pretty h a r l e t !

Oh, and thee q u i v e r (dost they seek payment for such services?)

Yet, thee kneel in hope to He so named Forgiver and Mercy!

With nimble fingers thee bathe such withered toes in the finest -

Thy most luxurious aroma with not a coin more in thy skirts.

(And the alabaster perfume permeates the feasting room)

Oh, gentle gypsy, thee dry His feet with the locks and wet them.

Ay! thee wet them with thy own salty fluid droppings of a beggar

Seeking reprieve from such existence that hath reaped virtue from thee.

So s o f t are His fingertips upon thy malnourished shoulders that thee weep . . .

Thy lips brushing such feet with thy pure passion of desperate belief

And though they judge thee s i n n e r – He hushes unto thee, faithful one,

“Thy sins art forgiven – go in peace . . .”