Washing of the Hands

I washed their hands one by one.

A dozen souls or more,

At my feet to be cleansed.

Fingers sprawled against linen

Open

Splayed

In preparation for the taking.

The length of each digital bone stretched across

the warmth of my palms.

Wet.

A soothing cool.

We whispered to each other,

In heartbeats

And soft moans.

Inhaling my exhale

as a thank you for being.

This moment ours.

Holy.

Under watchful waiting eyes.

May this confession render us sanctified.

Featured In SISTORIES Litmag Issue II: Correspondence