The complete poemearlier and revised versions, in full
“Last Supper”
He woke to the dog whimpering,
scratching his arm.
The phone rang.
His wife answered.
“It’s for you,” she said.
He pressed a pillowcase
against his bleeding arm.
“My father’s dead.
Can you shine my shoes?”
Downstairs, something crashed.
They walked in silence
because that’s what he liked.
In the living room,
the cheap print of The Last Supper
lay on the floor
its frame splintered.
At the wake, he knelt
beside his father’s coffin,
said an Our Father
kissed his father’s forehead.
Leaving, he asked his wife
when they’d last seen him.
“Just before Easter.
We took him out to dinner.”
“He was mostly good,” he murmured,
“but he did some bad things.”
She touched his shoulder.
At home, he knelt
beside the shattered print.
His shoulders drooped,
his back shook.
She knew he was thinking
of that last supper—
what he said,
what he wished he had.
She wanted to tell him
he’d been a good son,
that his father had loved him
deeply.
But words
could not relieve his pain.
She watched,
offering silence,
offering time.
Later, she would hug him,
but she wouldn’t say a thing.
The phone’s ring slices the dark.
His wife, voice flat: “It’s for you.”
“My father’s dead. Can you shine my shoes?”
Downstairs, something crashed.
They walked in silence
because that’s what he liked.
In the living room,
the cheap print of The Last Supper
lay on the floor,
its frame splintered.
At the wake, he knelt
beside his father’s casket,
said an Our Father
kissed his Pa’s forehead.
Leaving, he asked his wife
when they’d last seen him.
“Just before Easter.
We took him out to dinner.”
At home, he knelt
beside the shattered print.
His shoulders drooped,
his back shook.
She knew he was thinking
of that last supper—
what he said,
what he wished he had said.
She watched,
offering silence,
offering time.
Later, she would hug him,
and she wouldn’t say a thing.
Earlier text from the earlier reading copy of Crossings on this site. Revised text from Crossings.
He woke to the dog whimpering,
scratching his arm.
The phone rang.
His wife answered.
“It’s for you,” she said.
He pressed a pillowcase
against his bleeding arm.
“My father’s dead.
Can you shine my shoes?”
The phone’s ring slices the dark.
His wife, voice flat: “It’s for you.”
“My father’s dead. Can you shine my shoes?”
She wanted to tell him
he’d been a good son,
that his father had loved him
deeply.
But words
could not relieve his pain.
These stanzas are cut.
The opening loses its dog, its scratched arm and its pillowcase, and gains one verb. “The phone’s ring slices the dark” may keep the shock of being woken while reaching the news sooner. Nine lines become three, and “voice flat” tells the reader how the wife answers without a separate line to say so.
Later, the revision removes the stanzas in which the wife thinks what she would like to say, and also his murmured judgment, “He was mostly good, / but he did some bad things.” The poem already ends with her silence: “Later, she would hug him, / and she wouldn’t say a thing.” With the unspoken words no longer spelled out, the silence is left to speak for itself.
A suggestion. Where a character’s thought and a later gesture say the same thing, you might try keeping only the gesture, at least for one draft.