Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Foot Washing
I draw bath water, stir in
essential lavender and mint,
place violets, roses, and peonies
face up—they float like straw hats.
I’ve wanted to do this, to wash
someone’s feet, a sign of humility
and adoration. And I hate feet,
their eyelash cracks along toe creases,
heels rough as chapped pig hide,
how they look older than any part
of the body. But Eva is leaving
the country soon, so I choose this gift.
She slips one foot in, then the other
as she sits on edge of the tub.
The corners of her mouth turn up
slightly, her fingers curl under
the towel. I would be embarrassed too.
I lean over the tub and lift her foot
from behind the ankle. This muscular
arch, formed like the raised cobblestones
she will walk upon. Sandal tan lines
from our summer, already fading.
I pour water from my cupped hand;
both of us try not to laugh
because we know this is singular,
something to keep inside a jewelry box
like the polished rock she took
from her grandfather’s collection
or the sand dollar I still keep
wrapped in folds of toilet paper.
The mint feels like cool tongues
186 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Leslie St. John