She sweeps detritus from the table top,
love's residue, crumbs of laughter, date pits,
grape stems, and scattered promises all dropped
by men who've left the table where she sits.
She strains to hear the echo of the hymn
that they all sang as Jesus left, drunk friends
in tow. Their hearts (and hers) held fast the slim
hope there's some other way the story ends.
With willing hands to knead the sabbath bread
the garden-goers come to clean spilled broth,
to share the news that even Peter fled,
to cry, to help her with the tablecloth.
Each takes a corner of the linen, fine,
undyed, but stained bloodred with love and wine.