by Caravaggio, 1599–1600, Contarelli Chapel,
S. Luigi dei Francesi, Rome
He thought it was going to be about
wealth, those five fat cats around the table,
glossy silk and velvet, their extravagant
plumed hats, as they count and shuffle
the coins—a world away from the two
strangers who stumble into the room
with their bare and dirty feet.
But perhaps it was about the body,
miracle of flesh?—the delicious boys
clustered around Matthew, whose
muscled columns of leg stretch out
under the table. Or all those hands,
soft and young, large and wrinkled,
busy pushing coins, or straightening
a lorgnette, or leaning on a shoulder
for protection. And Jesus’s hand points
to Matthew, and Peter’s follows—twin
puppets dancing above the table, each
pointed finger charged with the power
of a Sistine God reaching out to Adam.
Then it slammed into him—it was about
nothing else but that one tiny moment,
wrapped in light, the breathless time
when everything pauses, turns, slips.
And this is Matthew’s only chance, no
need to ponder or weigh—as the dusty
golden light sweeps down on him, and
Jesus, still pointing, knows who will
follow, and turns his feet to the exit.