The Last Supper
I sit front and centre
hands spread, a victim of your choices.
The red wine stains my lips
swirls in my mouth like poison.
Twelve different voices crowd my ears
this is goodbye, but we do not know it yet.
If I could climb inside my own artwork, I would
change the past, present and future.
The moment I announce the betrayal
of all we have worked for, beautiful chaos.
You clench your fist and withdraw
A pretty penny was your price, so easily bought.
You took me here, you see, to Italy
where we could sit and marvel at what remains
each stroke of Da Vinci's masterpiece eroded
just as our own has been.
We do not take the Father's name in vain in our house
instead, we find receipts for jewellery our mother never received.
You are our Judas Iscariot
now the red wine stains the table cloth with blood
you will not climb a hill to place your head in a noose.
Yet still I pray for the resurrection, the salvation
of your name disappearing from the divorce papers.
(It was all in vain.)