The Last Supper

Our candle refuses to consume the night, it lit only to paint our shadows on the round mud walls We were splattered greys of thin paint, mounted bold and unbowing, guarding our supper like the ancient gods you read about but never pray to. In the round mud house, my first supper was no event unprecedented, my mother gave me a bowl’s fill and I guzzled like a master at gluttony I must’ve laughed as all tots when they get their fill. Our last supper was the last supper, except our table was yay big and wanting for color and drink; Ours was eleven men short, deficient too, of my father not for lack of want but for need to scourge, to ravage, and to make made, our table. I grew two decades from the same bowl digging at the same table and that one chair digging at my spine I am sat unmoving, lazy and ungrowing I am both Jesus and Judas, spotting the Old Testament and Slanging Katanas like it’s the new fashion We are a DaVinci hanging at the Santa Maria Delle Grazie except, we are the DaVinci that forgot his stroke, The DaVinci that forgot perspective, that never knew Christ and never saw Iscariot, He remembers only, the Katana in someone’s back Now, my siblings add two gods to the shadows, and my mother fills three bowls now and father ravages still, to make made, our table