In Harmony with Caravaggio
Imagine their disbelief: these two men,
perhaps fishermen like most of the twelve,
beholding the stranger do the familiar
blessing, the breaking of bread.
One half-stood in fright, nearly
toppling his chair, breath taken away.
What would you have done
if you were there, ensconced in the umbra
of the wayside inn? Would the symbols
have dawned on you: pomegranates as thorns,
apples of the Fall, fowl that crowed thrice
before sunrise, grapes turned into red wine?
After the initial fear and amazement
you would have settled in your chair,
eaten some fruit, surreptitiously glancing
at the pierced palms, the bruised cheeks.
You could not wait to run outside
to tell the others, fire burning in your chest.
In your old age you would never tire
of telling and retelling this story, how
one evening a Stranger had chosen you
to share this miraculous feast.
Oh, how extraordinary, how astonishing,
how wondrous —
to have been part of this strangest of
moments, when faith was tested,
and the heart probed; even as
in your innermost being you often asked:
were you found wanting?
And were you worthy?
