Mandé

A narrative poem for Maundy Thursday. (“Maundy” comes from the Norman French “mandé”, meaning “to command”, referring to the Last Commandment to love one another.)

An evening meal with an old friendwho told us he’d cross a stony bridge,its span a trial, then he’d descendto wade into black waters’ edge. Upon the table stripped and bare,a bowl of dried roses, grey as stone.The meal that we'd been served was spare:a loaf, thinned wine, a candle blown. Our host had called us, friends he knew.He spoke; we could not meet his eyes.Then someone in the dark withdrew,perhaps to weep, though his eyes were dry. Dry roses lay there, mixed with herbs,that failed to mask the scent of fate.We taste their bitterness with wordsthat turn our tongues to desert waste. He told us: “Love each other wellas I have loved you all this time.”But this night’s clouds can’t be dispelledby crumbs and drops of bread and wine. And then he rises to departwith us to gardens by the moon:we wait there, watch with charcoal hearts,when we hear footfalls — armed men in view.