John 12:1-11
Solemn, weightless, she appears
in the slender doorway of his time.
Heavy-sweet perfume rises, mingles
with murmurous voices bruising
the air, stinging her bare, bending nape;
hair falls unveiled on urgent fingers.
She weeps for the brother, living;
for the master, dead;
Time, a slivered moon, turns
toward the dark.
Broken pieces of stone vessel
catch tears of prophecy;
a pungent love wells up,
offends, stirs thunder,
unbinds betrayal.