The Last Supper Poem by tinashe severa

Three mice bore into my mothers bag of rice,
our last one...they shat in it,
little droppings that looked just like rice,
brown rice

we sat on the cold kitchen floor,
same song...hungry...stick thin,
she poured it into her only pot
a clay pot chipped at the top,
cracked at the side

she lit a fire...poured in water
stirred and stirred till all the droppings melted,
it looked so much like tea now,
brown tea

we drank the brown tea,
thanking God each time a little white grain
slipped onto our tongues,
she threw the bag out...her last bag,
with three dead rats in it
they had ate her last rat poison tablets,
that was my last supper...our last supper