After The Last Supper
From "The Blind Man’s Daughter"
I sit amongst the ruins
waiting
it is quiet outside
save the cicadas crying on the trees
it is quiet inside
under my palm a sliver of fried meat
weeps grease
I do not recoil
it is the spoils of the Last Supper
spoon fed to me like a child
half-eaten tatters
flung in blind rage at the wall that
does not reply to her name
something is eating at my insides
I cannot tell if it is stomach acid or shame
hope is holding me here
as time runs across the sky
carved wood statue
emerging from a sea of scattered plates
a wrinkled face bowed to the ground
with empty drowning eyes
the old creaky door is ajar
and the moonlight that casts a silver bar across the floor
does not exist for me
my daughter
my eyes and heart
will come gently through the night
over our doorstep
to hold me to her soft chest
to pick up my frail body
and chide me for my tantrum
to live happily here where her high apple cheeks
can vibrate with laughter in my palms
when she returns
I will never again forget
her smell of freshly turned earth after rain
nor will I let her forget
how much this old man loves
for in these few dark hours
nothing was the same
waiting
it is quiet outside
save the cicadas crying on the trees
it is quiet inside
under my palm a sliver of fried meat
weeps grease
I do not recoil
it is the spoils of the Last Supper
spoon fed to me like a child
half-eaten tatters
flung in blind rage at the wall that
does not reply to her name
something is eating at my insides
I cannot tell if it is stomach acid or shame
hope is holding me here
as time runs across the sky
carved wood statue
emerging from a sea of scattered plates
a wrinkled face bowed to the ground
with empty drowning eyes
the old creaky door is ajar
and the moonlight that casts a silver bar across the floor
does not exist for me
my daughter
my eyes and heart
will come gently through the night
over our doorstep
to hold me to her soft chest
to pick up my frail body
and chide me for my tantrum
to live happily here where her high apple cheeks
can vibrate with laughter in my palms
when she returns
I will never again forget
her smell of freshly turned earth after rain
nor will I let her forget
how much this old man loves
for in these few dark hours
nothing was the same
Julie Cheung is a British poet who recently graduated with a Creative Writing MA from Loughborough University. Her Korean and Mauritian-Chinese heritage (plus existential turmoil) is something she explores in depth in her work, writing her dissertation on the concept of home and belonging in multicultural poetry. In her spare time, she co-hosts the Look It Up Podcast from her south London bedroom. Her love language is food.
Art: Public Domain