Cana in Bruges

I pretend I am praying while the others
enact an episode from the Bible, though
wearing contemporary clothes and coifs.

The brahman kneeling beside me bothers
everyone with his sanctimonious gaze,
as if he has seen things under the table.

Let us focus on the banquet and its many
brimming dishes and flagons of fortified
wine and cider and the reddening faces.

The bride sits deluxe in a red velvet chair
designed to lean her forward just enough
to make her forehead look widely lunar.

The groom handles knives like a barber,
impressing nieces dressed like little nuns
and the red-cloaked squire of dubious jib.

The Jesus lookalike stands back wholly
gold-haloed, doing his three-finger salute,
eyes half-closed with messianic affect.

But let me continue to pray, or fold hands
as a sign of humility without whispering
its phrases under my breath like curses.