WASHING MY HANDS IN THE MOUTHS OF MEN
- May 8
- 1 min read
By Mairéad Maguire
With confidence born of vodka, I cup his chin in my palm.
My thumb languidly,
and less than gently,
left to right,
drags.
His bottom lip.
He kneels beside me faceless.
In the garden of a stranger,
on a night of unknowing.
The starless sky under us and-
deep earth above.
I am nothing but my hands.
He is nothing, but he opens his mouth.
White picket fence.
My thumb crosses the boundary line.
Trespasses a while,
inside his skull.
I own his jaw, but he is full of biting potential.
What Jesus cleansed feet of, I anoint my hands in.