I Was with You When You Slept
For Mary Magdalene

Dedicated to my mother, Diane Robinet Hansknecht

At the last supper I served the Passover
lamb and bitter greens, and said nothing
about how they wanted me to stand behind them
when you, my Lord, raised your cup and blessed us all.

I was not one of the Twelve, it is true
and as the bitter herbs touched my lips
I knew none of them would understand.

Not Peter, whose world of fishermen
was a world of men, after all.
He never allowed me on his boat.
The hem of a woman’s dress
on a boat deck would bring a curse
and empty the nets of a day’s catch.

Not Judas, the accountant, whose books
tracked every penny and whose
accusing eyes watched every cup of flour
I baked into loaves of bread
we gave to the poor.
You never counted the cost.

No, I wasn’t the prostitute 
who poured costly perfumes on your head 
and washed your feet with tears.
When you, my Lord, retired
and I followed a discreet few minutes later
I knew they whispered among themselves
and asked with a Pharisee’s contempt:
Rabbi, do you know what kind of woman touches you?

They never asked what was in my heart.
I look down at you, my gentle Lord,
and try to forget the days they made me follow behind.
I was with you when you closed your eyes,
when the troubles of the earth
lifted like wrinkles in the sand,
smoothed by a cleansing rain.
I was with you when you slept.