The comedy of table
Old Abram at the oaks of Mamre
squints into the noonday sun
and bids the travelers welcome.
Bread and a tender calf, and then
the promise of the impossible,
Sarah laughing in the kitchen.
After the baskets of bread crumbs
and fish bones, after the wounds
and the burial, the intimate supper
at Emmaus, his hands glowing
Rublev paints the Trinity
seated at a tilted table,
a goblet ready to slide off.
Open your hands and your mouth,
they sing, as the stars sail over me.