The Alabaster Jar
This jar is your blistered feet
on fire. This jar is my hair falling
on flames, a chorus of gasps, my sleeves
soaked in kerosene. This jar is my tears spilling
on the floor darkening your sun-tight skin.
This jar is broken bits of alabaster
and ribbons of nard in your hair.
This jar is your eyes: two dirty suns
disappearing beneath the horizon.
This jar is aloe, myrrh, strips of linen;
the musty scent of your empty grave.
This jar is the mystery of your grace.
This jar is my bare scabbed knees,
a constellation of tar stars scarring my heel,
the lisp of my lips kissing your feet.