we are mourning but that is not new(s), we are always mourning us who feel in our bones the chill of our impending deaths prophesied by holy men – take of our bodies broken for you, sit, eat, at this table balanced on our bare-back(s) trembling with exhaustion, its surface brims over with: bunches of bananas, plump eggplants and glistening cucumbers, shading a dark brown;

we fear death, us gathered here waiting in white sterile plastic that flaps open at the back to bare buttocks, features wan under the fluorescent light, skins slick and slippery – c(u/o)m(e), sweat, sip of the goblet poured out for you, the cup overflows, its rim wet with shame that burns all the way down, anything but our blood, unclean for the altar;

we learn to be lovers of ourselves like toddlers on tottering feet, legs taking slow tiny steps towards the realization that we could be worthy, us lovers denied of love – sniff, puff, inhale, of our gasping last breaths collected in elegant pipes that trail back to transparent tubes, snug against squat noses, on the exhale watch it resolve into scented incense that curls upwards;

we wonder who will break bread in remembrance of us, siblings of the light through the prism, refracted into a kaleidoscope, who will claim the candles burned to nubs, wax cool to the touch, who will thread flame to waiting wicks, and pray for our repose, the communion of souls, forgiveness for hate, and love everlasting. àṣẹ.