Woman from Bethany

You stride into the room
Of feasting men, overpowering
Every one of them
With a single gesture:

You break the neck
Of your one treasure:
A jar of precious ointment.

You pour it all over him,
Put your strong hands onto his body,
And anoint him from head to toe,
Kneading your fragrant treasure into him.

You kneel to touch his feet with your hair.
You are not humbled;
You are a part of him
Whom you claim,
And he has surrendered.

You know when you are done:
You stand,
And he gleams
With the pure power
Of your loving touch.

He feels good.
He is alive.
This is everything.
This is the gift of life.

His friends, watching, call you a whore.

Ironic, right?