The Last Supper

for starters

he lets me know

he likes his salad undressed,

like his women.

he prefers

white meat

and the company of men.

well, actually

they are superior

conversationalists.

I chew it over and imagine

the pins and needles in my fingers

sewing his mouth shut

as he talks,

sucking in air,

spitting out

scraps of half-digested insults

like tiny sharp bones.

I blow on my temper to cool it down

then bring it to my lips

and bite my tongue.

it mixes in

with the heart in my mouth

and slides down;

a lump in my throat.

he says something.

offal, really

he says.

I see my best bits,

at another table

brown meat and brains

discarded on a silver platter

and feel the meal

repeating.