Oil and Wine
by Ann Giles Rimbey

(for Robert H. Giles, Jr.)

Even half dead, I was alive. What an obligation -- another
man's oil and wine. The innkeeper wants me to pay
the balance. Things cost, and Those Samaritans, he says.
I have sent to Jerusalem for money and my other

cloak. My fevered dreams are dust, sandals, hems,
dust. A priest, a Levite -- who knows how many passed
the fresh-kill stench of my thickening wounds. My sack
of tools fetched a fair price in Jericho, I bet, grim

reward for me as I contemplate broken hands.
What worries me is this: would I have done the same?
This man has burdened me. Is the next lame
traveler mine? The Samaritan said nothing. Sand

spilled from his knees as he lifted me to his animal.
Had he no moment of indecision? These are hard
times. I hesitate to do the right thing. I seem a yard
flower straining near clay-foot prophets. Eternal

life? This one saddens me with its thieves and loss.
I was humming when they attacked. But I am half alive.
I massage my fingers with oil. I may again tamp iron
to tongs, pliers, awls -- tools to grasp, tools to use.

Anne Giles Rimbey has published poems in Tampa Review,
Birmingham Poetry Review, Kalliope, and in the new anthology
I Am Becoming the Woman I've Wanted.
She lives in Tampa, Florida.