Maria’s House for Dinner, Madrid, 3 Years Ago

I think of the painting. The movement
of “The Last Supper” is almost
industrial.
Each man leans at a very particular
angle.
He and his parts are rigid and their summation
is sinless, seamless,
clean.
It is mechanically perfect, this clockwork
painting.

We are in Maria’s house.
Her brother is dying of cancer. So we’ll dine
together.
She's invited
all his friends. They seem happy, sinful, flawed,
organic as
the apple that began it all. We’ll finish with it,
apple ice cream
for dessert.

I find myself an outsider on the inside. At the table I'm
a welcome distraction.
They want to know about New York. Is it really
like the movies?
Yes and no, I tell Maria’s brother. He looks disappointed,
tired
of not getting a straight answer maybe.
Tired
not from the bad days, but from the inexplicably
good ones.

Would he rather be the mechanical John of Da Vinci?
Leaning
backward for eternity, making only one
motion
to complete the harmony of the picture? Maria's brother
breaks his bread.