When the embarrassment had passed,
and all the shame that followed that long night,
so that I dared to face the all-too tender spot,
it wasn’t the servitude that I recalled,
or even my shock at the reversal
of our traditional roles,
but the intimacy, the soft touch
of skin on skin, evoking memories
of my mother bathing my small body
when I was a child.
And as he knelt there, his gentle caring
contrasting sharply with the evening’s
loose talk of betrayal and the threat of death,
I almost believed he had power to wash away
all my unworthiness, simply by applying
cleansing water to my hands and head.
Even now, I feel my skin
begin to glow as I recall
his head bent low, his palm
supporting, tenderly caressing
my cracked and dirt-encrusted
heel.