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Now when the Pharisee which had bidden him saw it, he spake within himself, saying, This man, if he were a prophet, would have known who and what manner of woman this is that toucheth him: for she is a sinner . . . and [Jesus] said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman since the time I came in hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment. (Luke 7:39-46)
Simon the Pharisee
I had invited him, but not
as an honored guest. As one
would bid the village carpenter to come
inspect a broken table.
One does not honor
a humble man with warm water
and clean towels. He who
wanders the road is accustomed
to dust. I did not offer
amenities.
How she slipped
past the door I cannot tell.
I knew her face. Who
among us did not, except the Teacher?
The story was the usual one of great
love and sad betrayal. She
had a reputation
for doing everything
to excess.
There were tears in her eyes, but she crouched
quietly enough at the foot
of the Teacher’s couch.
I did not wish to make a scene, so did
not bid her go. Too late
I saw the small stone flask she held, breathed
in the wild perfumes of India
as the drops of scented oil
slipped out one by one.
The precious liquid glided smoothly
across his dusty feet.
I bit my tongue.