This poem was first published in Issue 15 (2009) of Ancient Paths literary magazine.
The Last Breakfast
by Anne Sheldon
The black spine of the dory
barely wavers against the red east. He can count his seven friends — Nathanael’s skinny elbows at an angle with the lifted oars; Peter poised to dive into the net; and John — pointing at the sky as if to rhapsodize the bloody dawn.
It’s cold.
The pebbles hurt his feet. He’ll miss his feet and miss their hurting, too, but he smiles, imagining the faces of his friends.
No more campfires after this,
or loaves and fishes, but this last is bread from heaven, trout form the stream that ripples by the throne. And why not coffee from the future? The galvanized pot is streaked with galaxies.
The water boils.
The fish skin crackles. It gives him so much pleasure to make their breakfast that they blur in his eyes as they labor. Surely they will smell the fish and turn.
The hungry fragrance travels.
Surely they will smell the coffee and turn. How far he’s come to make their coffee. Surely, surely, he won’t need to work another wonder. Surely they will turn.