I look down at
bread in a golden bowl,
the flesh of man (or is it the Flesh of God?)
the scent warm and biting
and slightly intoxicating.
I watch wine soak this bread
drench it, drown it
like a wound fountaining
the blood of man (or is it the Blood of God?)
until the bottle empties
and the blood dries out.
I chew bread slowly
as a man’s eyes on the wall behold me
(or are they the Eyes of God?)
and inhale the sharpness
of burning frankincense.
The feeling of standing in an Orthodox church or monastery is truly unlike anything else I have ever experienced. Since relocating to Europe, I’ve had many, many more opportunities to visit these places—some of them old as the 13th century. One thing that really left an impression on me was how the eyes of the saints depicted in the frescoes lining the walls remain fixed on you as you walk past them. Standing inside one of these places feels like what I imagine the afterlife would be like: surrounded on all sides with with endless, deep, Byzantine blue as shining faces watch me intently with their anagogic gaze.
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