Last Supper and Gesthemane

Leaning against your breast and asking of betrayal
the burnt brown and green of bitter herbs a sting more so
tonight.

Waist stripped;
washing feet
and the strange feeling
that all has changed.

Needing something more than ever, deeply drunk,
Passing the cup but later when the last of the fat-spat lamb
grease rubbed platter,
Opening more jars and dancing
late, singing of living.

How that turns in its own colour
next to death.
How tenacious our breath.

Couldn't understand the meaning then of 'broken'
It was all just too much.

My eyes and arms were so heavy and throat thick with wine,
muscles dripping off bone like
fruit laden vines.
When you asked us to watch in the sleepy garden
I drove will - at least to see the moon playing games

But the rich umbre and enchanted grass
beckoned me to sleep until
I felt soft hand pushing up through my neck nape
set my senses crawling back into the night.