![]() Warhol, Andy . Last Supper . 1986 |
Codependent
I poured his seventh can of golden beer, ignored that I was kept inside his stein, prepared a meal with scarring doubt and fear. He dipped his bread in my dry crimson wine, left crumbs like no betrayer should -- a trail too wet to find. His cock would crow and dine on me, commune the pecking order, fail to care that I was Judas too, obscured, and altered. I was raised behind a veil and taught to hear the devil's mocking bird through filtered temple eyes. I see it makes no sense -- perhaps that's why I'm always lured to black and grey. The colors are mistakes, aren't they? I eat the stale white bread he breaks. ©2001 Peggy Putnam Owen |