Hands harvested the grapes, and feet crushed
them in the winepress. Hands held
the vessel under the dark stream
till the vessel ran over, sealed up the wine
and carried it down to the cellar.
Hands shaped the water basin on the wheel,
set it to dry. Hands worked the loom that wove
the towel now folded under the basin.
Fingers held the needle that, hemming
the towel’s edge, drew a drop of blood.
Hands kneaded the unleavened dough,
worked in more flour, stoked the oven coals.
Hands shaped the loaves and baked them,
then set the bread to cool.
Hands picked and washed the bitter herbs.
Hands laid the table, lit the lamps.
And when supper ends and hands raise up
the cup, the men will remember (though
nobody will say), the hands that drew the knife
across the lamb’s throat and held its limbs
while the last twitch of muscle ebbed away.