BABA'S FEET
A Maundy Thursday Poem
At the end,
Baba didn’t want his hands held.
Not by us, anyway.
They clawed in ceaseless search.
Fingers wide, then bent.
Raking in rhythm with the rattle.
But his feet?
They kicked off the blankets and waited.
Tired skin, chapped with thirst.
It took two washcloths—
The first, wet with warm water.
The second, dry and clean.
Oil came next. Was it olive?
None of us remember now.
We eased it into ancient lines.
His anklebones gleamed with it.
Soon, his palms turned up.
Came down to the sheet.
Rested there like lotus flowers.


Lovely tribute to our father on his birthday