Beneath the cobbled streets of Rome
early followers are buried together.
The network of tombs like honeycomb,
marked, not with crosses–too close
to the one on which Peter died
a few kilometers away–
but with crude frescoes of fish,
loaves of bread, a phoenix.
Jesus comes disguised as your everyday,
a professor tells me.
No prophet’s apparition,
no getting swallowed by a whale,
just Jesus meeting me in the dry chaparral
or the shock of mustard on a hillside in spring.
Jesus in the cup of coffee overflowing,
or the burst of egg yolk running down my chin.
Paint these on my grave: the fried egg,
the mustard seed, the warm cup.