FOR MARTHA

What she said was, Lord, tell her to help me – but what she meant was, God, could you just look at me once? Not at her, adoring, draped in her hair and a reckless perfume that expunges, with one tilt of her hand, the redolent tang of salt herring with soft roes, that I soaked overnight, skinned and filleted; the fat smell of the lamb I roasted with sweet paprika, juniper berries and dill; the sharp note of spring onions, that I trimmed and finely chopped; the pressed out aromas of garlic, olive oil and freshly ground pepper; cabbage leaves that I blanched; radishes, that I peeled and grated; cracked wheat, that I washed and soaked overnight; cinnamon quills; honey; cloves; pomegranate syrup; lemon rind, that I grated; almonds, pistachios, hazelnuts, that I roasted, broke, crushed for you.

Tell her to tie up her hair. Come tell me all the things that you are telling her now – here, where I am standing, where you should expect to find me in my mother’s house. Here where I’ll be long hours after you’re gone, caressing the pot in my hand. Not your flesh, but a bowl of clay made to be filled and emptied and washed for you. Jesus, we are not all unbridled. Don’t you see that what I now do, I do for you? Pouring out costly oil where there is no witness, here, in the kitchen – washing your plate, not your feet. Catching at words through the doorway as they fall from your lips to the floor where she sits. Come, Lord Jesus. Come. Put your hands in the warm, soapy water next to mine and make my sacrifice holy.