Clean

Clean

Bethany Besteman

“Pilate took water and washed his hands”

Lord, my hands are clean, too clean 
to feel the grit of gethsemane, 
fingers dug into dirt in desperation
and despair,
grime wedged under broken fingernails.

Here in my land of linoleum and lysol
I can’t smell the sweat of accusers:
aroma of anger and adrenaline
and fear,
shouts of bad breath and spittle.

Wearing my synthetic soft wool blend
I don’t feel the tug of blood-soaked tunic, 
coarse cloth to cover and congeal
and cut
ragged flesh rubbed and roughened.

I sip a smoothie, slipping down sweet
and can’t taste the iron tang of blood
or the cotton-dry dehydrated tongue
or wine
mixed with vinegar: bitter, bloody brew.

Looking out over a lined lawn, ordered, weed-free
I don’t see the cross-cut skyline, crude, cruel,
the stained boulders, barren, bedraggled hill,
and over broken ground
blood and water trace racing, dusty rivulets. 

Lord, I’ve washed my hands and sterilized my senses.
Scandalize me; reveal the rot, putrescence 
encamped inside, around, under
and throughout
until I stumble to you, grasping again at the cross.

---

Bethany Besteman
Worship Coordinator & Tutor

Bethany works as a Writing Center tutor at the United States Naval Academy and as a worship coordinator at her church in Silver Spring, Maryland where she also lives with her husband, son, and cat. She has had poetry featured by Reformed Worship .

Photography by Reggie Pankova