I opened the egg but really I thought, it needed some salt and vodka.
That taste, immediately memories of Russian Easters past flooded in.
Zakuski, herrings, black bread, coloured eggs, pickles, perhaps not as far as a balalaika.
The party after Midnight Mass, after that long fast now permitted with rich food to sin.
And that long service. The oh-too-long standing.
The total invasion of the senses, incense, chanting, vision.
Astounded, it leads the soul to a mystical flame, Christ risen, remembering.
Khristos voskres. He is risen indeed to proclaim is our mission.
And then at midnight the solemn procession,
Three times the church circling.
Every action unchanging in one thousand years. This is the lesson.
He is risen, rising.
But it is gone one thirty.
The party awaits and I am thirsty.