We meant to save this for my marriage,
This, my inheritance, the price paid
To a husband in exchange for his protection,
His provision, and (if I were lucky) his affections.
One small jar, a year’s pay–
And I crack it open on hair dusty
With Jerusalem soil, shoulders weighed down
By some great load I cannot understand,
And it runs down like anointing oils
On the unlikeliest of kings, and as I
Look into His eyes despite all proper inhibition,
I see, and I know–we shall be wed despite
His great sorrow, or because of it,
And I have no need of this sweet fragrance
Anymore–He shall pay my bride-price for me,
And carry me over the threshold into home.