Holy Thursday, 1973

The priest pushes back his rough sleeves
as if he’s going to do dishes.
In a shallow bowl the water slops.
The song stops.
The priest kneels.
She’s done the Union Jack in school,
those different crosses, where this ends.
Sitting by the altar, her father looks as far away as Scotland.
The deacon’s reading John 13—
Peter says no, but her father says nothing.
Water pours over his big white feet.
The new floor is parquetry—little sheets
that cross in all directions.
She squints to see the shine bend
like hair that’s braided under.
When she looks up her father
is barefoot in his best suit, like Paul on Abbey Road.
His heart is tricky and she knows his feet are cold.

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A poem that's been not quite there for a long time. So far it's resisted every attempt at pushing it just a little farther -- writing around it, reordering, casting into forms, etc. Anyway, here it is not quite right in rhymed couplets. I know there's something here, just an eyelash away. And I can't find it. Bother.

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It occurs to me that should be:

"His heart is tricky and so she knows his feet are cold"

Something about the extra beat and the extra connection is statisfying.