When Magdalena bought her oil
to slather on the feet of her beloved
while she could still touch them,
seeing in her knowing eye
the thorns ahead
and cherishing each rough callus
of his travelling toes
… she might have been shocked by their anger,
surprised out of her joy
by the judgement of their fear,
awakened to the limits of their minds.
She might have turned in puzzlement
as they counted the cost,
scared by the rich perfume in the air,
the smell of death and decadent sweet life.
She might have turned up her palms,
surrendered to the flow
that was her liberation,
her deep embrace of celebration,
ushering in more compassion
in her vulnerable act of love,
helpless to make them understand.
In her moment of exposure
she might have also seen her road ahead,
her lonely exile, her incommunicable joy,
her running yearning longing to share.
Facing the angry friends,
she might have doubted for a moment
her own wisdom,
the integrated tingle of her body,
which had moved with love
to give away her treasures,
making room for the expensive gifts
she poured onto his soles,
the abandonment of tears and hair
and deferential reverence wiping at the oil.
She might have stood there for a second,
tear-streaked and laughing,
oil dripping from her stringy tresses,
exultation ebbing
in the face of their incomprehension.
And in that shattered moment,
with its layers of loss,
and its layers of succulent glow,
despair and total satiation intermingled,
she might have turned again,
and caught his eye,
and shared the cosmic joke,
and breathed in one deep breath
before the tidying.