Entertaining Angels Unaware

Entertaining Angels Unaware by Neil McCall

His shirt looked poorly ironed;
strange wrinkling around the shoulders,
but the eyes, the eyes!
He was the grace at my meagre table
and a new deep sweetness in my sleep.
I didn't dare ask him to share my bed,
but his chaste kiss on my forehead
still burns there like a third eye.

He preferred poached eggs,
ate the last of my bread, then:
"I must fly! he said.
"You've given yourself away, I giggled.
There was a great unfolding, and he was gone.
I opened the pantry to put the eggs away;
there sat
baskets of nameless fruit,
flagons of golden juice,
peacocks in aspic.