The Last Supper

Nothing ever so stunning as a fear that flickers, then consumes, then wipes its mouth in satisfaction. And we were desperate, lined up and mouths gaping like marionettes scorched by the sun. We needed water but craved the wine, so sure that our hunger would support us like some beautiful metaphor of passion and truth and all that we had lost. But it mocked us instead as we watched the tableau and the ground trembled beneath us. The earth cracked, burst open, and the roots clung to our backs, tethered us there within that fragile life we were given once, both of us becoming, in very unequal parts, strong and then weak and then brave like lions. In the end we understood very little of our story, so fragile and unforgiving. But the roots grow still, and we are bound to those moments because sin has a way of smiling you know, that sticky taste, sweet like honeyed butter that never disappears, even when you wash your hands. And that, in itself, is a masterpiece.