Sestina from the Last Supper

 

Like the iron teeth of a bear trap your work

Hardened hands hold my foot. I cannot, dare

not, pull back. Your tears fall like molten wax.

What can I make of this display? We call

you Master, Lord rightly, but your sobs

Like a woman clutching her rescued babe,

 

Or soldiers home from war call their babes --

Wring us helpless. You do mighty work,

You heal the sick, raise the dead. Your sobs

As you wash my feet with tears, sadly call

My name. What is it now? How can you dare

To make a scene as candle wax

 

Scents our Cenacle and stars wax

Above and sunlight ebbs. The ewe's babe

is slain. Now listen! The holy shofar calls,

And God commands us set aside all work.

Remember Pharaoh snubbed the Prophet’s dare;

And then wept helpless with pathetic sobs

 

When God's dread wraith turned their joy to sobs,

And merriment to grief. Lunacy must wax

When paschal moons appear and pagans dare

To test the Lord of Hosts. But like the babes

At their mother's breast, our only work

Is faith in God. What other call

 

Do you hear? That sound? It's but a rooster's caw;

Why should it cause such desolate sobs?

Tomorrow you'll get on with your good work,

And your holy Father's rule will wax

The world with sunshine! The cooing babe

Will play on the cobra's den; she’ll dare

 

To put her hand in the viper's nest. Come dare

To sing God's praise. Let's give our guests the call.

Here’s your Mother. Do you know your baby

Boy has bathed my filthy feet with sobs?

Let's open windows, light the beeswax,

Settle down to this night's mighty work.

 

My son will dare to topple czars with sobs;

His call on death will cripple kings who wax.

Today my babe will do a mighty work.