I seem to have come to the end of something, but donít know what,
Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree.
Maundy Thursday tomorrow,
then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag,
Dogwood blossoms like little crosses
All down the street,
lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads.
Perhaps itís a sentimentality about such fey things,
But I donít think so. One knows
There is no end to the other world,
no matter where it is.
In the event, a reliquary evening for sure,
The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass.
Or maybe itís just the way the snow fell
a couple of days ago,
So white on the white snowdrops.
As our fathers were bold to tell us,
itís either eat or be eaten.
Spring in its starched bib,
Winterís cutlery in its hands. Cold grace. Slice and fork.
|"Last Supper" is from The Wrong End of the Rainbow by Charles Wright, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. ©2005 by Charles Wright. Reprinted by permission of Sarabande Books and the author.|