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.