A band of sworn-in ragamuffins doing what they do best—
being together, looking to the Rabbi, asking questions.
Lounging on cushions stuffed with three years of following, of growing, of
rapid fire, passionate confusion:
“Who are you, really?”
“Can I sit at you right?”
“It certainly can’t be me with a betrayer’s kiss on my lips tonight.”
Again as always,
a gentle smile, all warmth and promise and insight, blooms beneath a beard so commonplace, so delightfully unremarkable.
He knows something—He has always known something and, slowly, deliberately, the weight of calling, of shifting and shaking, settles on the room—as thick and enduring as the Temple veil.
A band of bellies raise up the din of hunger, gurgling for more than food,
directing its frenetic cacophony at the one and only still point.
“Take and eat.”
“Take and drink.”
“This humble spread means more than you think.”
Laid out before them was bread born of bone with inky black regret as its marrow, taken in, dried, ground into healing powder and mixed with the oil of a fallen Earth.
Savory, mysterious, somehow the flesh of God.
Laid out before them was the wine of severed veins, sweetened by arteries pumping still—
fresh fountains of sacrifice, velvety thick and tasting of high-dollar renewal.
Tangy, mysterious, somehow the blood of God.
Foggy, distant understanding.
A band of the swept-up, the believing, somehow grasp, chew, swallow, taste.
On their palate lingers knowledge beyond words, expanding and growing—
“You’ll need nourishment for where we’re going.”
They end with a hymn—somber, light
the scent of olives envelopes them , a whisper of peace
while entering the night.