The Last Breakfast I dreampt I was hanging wet t-shirts on a cotton
line, my hands grew red and scraped with wringing and
when the sunlight hit the cloth everything smelled
softly of old grape candy, the kind that accumulates in
school locker corners and Halloween pillowcases. I picked
a splinter out of my pinkie and thought about all the
women for hundreds (thousands?) of years who stood outside
on a chilly day to hang men’s clothes to dry. I
thought about Jesus and wondered who washed
his robes. Which Mary was it, who twisted water
from the last set of linens he wore, was it the
Virgin or Magdalene, and as I wonder this I
realized the Bible was surely written by a
man, because a woman would have known
how incredibly important these details are, and
then I begin to wonder who will cook the last
dinner for my roommate, or wash curdled milk from
the last cereal bowl he sprinkles sugar into.  ¶ 7:00 PM