A supper’s ready. All set
in an upper room that’s heavy
with the sense of an ending,
of reality bending
to some kind of a mending.
The Great Gardener’s tending
to his weed-throttled plot,
this planetary dot
his God-chosen spot.

There’s room for thirteen,
set up like a fresco, a Leonardo scene,
or some kind of tapestry
stitched up for a queen,
framed for a movie,
with a blue-eyed James Dean,
this Passover meal tells where Israel has been,
the slavery she’s tasted, and the freedom she’s seen.

He takes bread, and he’s starting to tear
then bowing his head, in sorrow or prayer?
The dough is unrisen, like a soul in its tomb,
the bread lies flat, broken and a hush fills the room.

The Rabbi’s now rising, ready to speak:
“This is my body. Take it and eat.
Feast on my memory; hunger no more.”
Then he’s taking the wine and he’s starting to pour.
Rich red run the rivulets, like fruit of the vein,
a suffering vintage, from a harvest of pain.
“Drink in this covenant, the new wine is here.”
And the last drop falls heavy, like love in a tear.

His followers drink, with trembling hearts
a curtain is rising, and they don’t know their parts,
act 1 is beginning, with the taste of this wine;
they are fishers of men, who are cast without lines.