did pilate's wife do pilates?

Also, I want to post the poem I'm writing my next essay on. I'm also looking at another piece of literature in the essay (a rewriting of the story of Noah from a woman's perspective), but I'm much more interested in this work by Carol Ann Duffy, a British poet. Oh, there is so much I can write about this poem, both as a rewriting of a Biblical story, but also as a feminist rewriting, about giving a voice to women... I wish my lecturer was as excited about it as I am. I like Carol Ann Duffy. She is so clever.


***


Pilate's Wife

Firstly, his hands - a woman's. Softer than mine,
with pearly nails, like shells from Galilee.
Indolent hands. Camp hands that clapped for grapes.
Their pale, mothy touch made me flinch. Pontius.

I longed for Rome, home, someone else. When the Nazarene
entered Jerusalem, my maid and I crept out,
bored stiff, disguised, and joined the frenzied crowd.
I tripped, clutched the bridle of an ass, looked up

and there he was. His face? Ugly. Talented.
He looked at me. I mean he looked at me. My God.
His eyes were eyes to die for. Then he was gone,
his rough men shouldering a pathway to the gates.

The night before his trial, I dreamt of him.
His brown hands touched me. Then it hurt.
Then blood. I saw that each tough palm was skewered
by a nail. I woke up, sweating, sexual, terrified.

Leave him alone. I sent a warning note, then quickly dressed.
When I arrived, the Nazarene was crowned with thorns.
The crowd was baying for Barabbas. Pilate saw me,
looked away, then carefully turned up his sleeves

and slowly washed his useless, perfumed hands.
They seized the prophet then and dragged him out,
up to the Place of Skulls. My maid knows all the rest.
Was he God? Of course not. Pilate believed he was.

- Carol Ann Duffy