St Gregory of Nyssa


He unfolds a napkin over his lap

in anticipation of some fine dining

signals the garçon for a menu

and opens the Holy Book

smelling each page,

breathing in its curious aromas.

I imagine an angel playing a Parisian tune on an accordion

as he bites into some profiteroles

he found beside an infant Moses

among the reeds.

He turns a page

and the Holy Spirit uncovers a new dish,

honey glazed tarts stacked on top of each other

barring the way of Pharaoh’s soldiers

while Moses walks between walls

of chocolate sauce.

I imagine him standing on a balcony in Cappadocia

stretching out his arms

for one more dose of daily bread

and after swallowing the last bite of some manna spread with jam

walking up the Holy mountain

and vanishing in its lofty heights

following the light

until he is absorbed

into the wondrous nothingness

of the dazzling darkness.