Robert Ford
Last Supper
You had me crushing
plump cloves of garlic
under the firm blade
of a butcher’s knife,
freeing them from
their paper skins,
while you hammered
at marbled steaks,
tenderising, our elbows
silently bumping,
petals of wine-stain
already flashing at
the edges of your lips.
As the oil roused itself
in the pan, you got me
to slice a lemon, the nip
of its juice finding
tiny wounds I didn’t
yet know I had.
Robert Ford's poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including Picaroon Poetry, Dime Show Review, Butcher's Dog and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/