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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. 

Copyright © Melissa Schwartz | Year Posted 2014


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