I. Easter Monday
Mon chef majeur? He is the Holy Ghost,
and Nathan asks, “Have you been born again?”
Perhaps not. I have faith in Christ. Amen
I say to you He comes when I am toast
browned on a grill, beside me shredded dove
tossed with the pasta, egg yolks beaten fine
with a wire whisk, a whisper of white wine
and then we garnish with a prayer for love
and Kalamata olives. I am Greek
from way back and invite my friends to dine
however politics or fates incline.
Thrust from the garden, we were made to seek
provender. God told Peter: “Kill and eat.”
Temptation: lambs gambol on cloven feet.
A year, missionary in Kazakhstan,
a great place for a boy to learn God’s plan
set forth in Ten Commandments
or Madison’s Amendments
to the best rules ever devised for man
since coal spilled from a hod
burned for the love of God,
and venison browned in a frying pan.
My guest first earned his spurs not far from Pinedale
and spent most of his teenage years on horseback
roaming the wilds, the Wind River Mountains,
his Bible Camp not many miles from Cora,
and followed me up the Green River Valley
to find my fire ring stone cold under Square Top.
I pray the Bible will become his bass note,
the drone string on a gypsy’s hurdy-gurdy
above which treble strings ring like the angel’s
who harped with David in his ancient city
and now stands guard over a poet’s children.
Aged four and eight, let them have saddled ponies.