Why the Sheraton Soap is Safe with You

It began when you were

young. Told to wash your

hands at dinner time—

you dunked them in the

mud outside the door,

a wild-eyed John the Baptist,

declared that they had never

been as clean as they were now.

 

Purity isn’t white—

neither is it snow.

The melt will take it down

the grubby river—yes,

even the grubs will splish

& splash on a Saturday

night. What else would they

be up to?

 

What we call filth

is spotless. Immaculate.

It’s why Mary never kept her

hands in gloves. Beneath her

nails the glory of the soil.

 

You learned in Art that

black is all the colours—

immersed in germy earth;

at one with the defiled.

 

It’s why you claimed

the centipede

is the holiest of us all,

Jesus on His knees

to bathe their feet,

so caught up with meek

 

that He forgot about the Cross—

or put it off at least until

the table He was to dine on

 

was rife with so much filth

that even the Lamb of God

Himself could see His own

unmarred reflection in its dazzle.

Andreas Gripp

May 24, 2026