We ate a simple meal, bread
dipped in oil, wine, some figs.
It was what we could afford.

Jesus blessed the bread. He tore it
into chunks. We watched.
No one spoke.

"Who is it?" I asked, only because
Peter nudged me. "The one I give
the bread to," Jesus replied.

He handed it to Judas. A drop of oil
glistened on the table and sank
into it. Here and gone.

We did not think it was
the Last Supper. We did
not know ourselves.

Judas left,
and it was night.