The Last Supper

brother shuffles paperwork,
we prepare
i paint her nails,
for death
parents bicker over timing,
in different ways.
She only stares.

all the cousins come, we feel the absence of a roasted pig.
all the tias come, we lose each other in a haze of perfumes.

prima brushes Her hair;
the monitor
tio takes another smoke,
dad, muttering dammit,
while abuelo hides vodka.
we freeze and

all the neighborhood kids who ate rice at Her table
stand quietly outside and hold the door open for death.