Last Supper

Restaurant silverware
sings across plates.
I lay down my fork,
massage her cooling hand.
Her gaze freezes.

"I think I don't 
want to be married anymore."

Dinner heaves upward,
hands tremor,
heart implodes.
An avalanche sweeps me,
shattering,
down marriage's five year slope.

We abandon our Anniversary meal,
walk to tranquil river's edge,
boughed by shivering leaves.
Swallows flap sickle wings,
swoop reflecting above the water.

"Birds don't mate for life,"
I whisper, aching.
"I guess we don't, either."

Arms encircle me from behind.
Gold gleams upon her finger.
I wrench free of her Judas hug,
struggle to wake from the
nightmare stalking beside me.

Scott Speck
1998