I Kings 19:4–8
When the angel urged me to eat,
I ate. She was neither stern nor angry.
Her spattered apron faced me
at eye level, though I tried not to see.
Later, dangling the dessert menu
before me as if encouraging
a reluctant child, she touted
the strawberry pie and the lemon,
quickly pointing out the choices
in the plastic case behind her,
resting in their disappointed
meringues and sticky filling.
All I need is a cake baked on hot stones
and a jar of water, I quipped,
as though I were the prophet,
as though my misery were his,
as though I were waiting
to be summoned to Horeb,
the Mount of God.
