He peers into the blue bowl:
lamb broth infusing grains
of rice and lentils, brown
dregs upwelling to surface—
for a moment mesmerized,
murky quick-silt pulling him
under; he grimaces about the
future. The rice looks dirtied,
like so many thoughts. He knows
they’d also feed lentils & rice
to Hussein before hanging him,
but Saddam would have no remorse.

This man is innocent. His eyes
full of tears.

Before he lifts the torn pieces
of bread and the blood colored
wine he’s staring into, he looks
up to the others, their eyes soft.
In a broken voice he says,
This is my body, this my blood
which is shed for you.