The eye of God is silence: a peacock's tail,
or this portable typewriter. On a humid morning,
compelled by the detritus of sin, I sit here
and wish merely to fashion the spatter of
unredeemed blood into an image of Grace,
tattered passions converging toward heaven.
Language, this tracing of sticks in the dust,
this Golem, these tears falling like errant wafers
into the communion wine, still must observe
the Word. By pressing this wildness onto
onion skin and watching it writhe, despite
stiffening legs in the embrace of aluminum,
the tasks of illness, and my soul's fearful
passage, one more madman in horn-
rimmed glasses will know Christ's will is not
Purgatory. It is an Argus-eyed devotion
winnowing the chaff, harvesting the wind,
dim vision and new beginnings be damned.
Stranger in the bedclothes, demand a body,
demand to be sacrificed. Pull out the mote
of thine eye. Devote yourself to the awful divine.
A graduate of Boston University, Ryan Asmussen teaches A.P. English Literature and Composition, Humanities, and drama at a public high school in suburban Chicago. He is a semi-professional musician, as well as a novelist, currently looking for an agent for his first novel, The Englishman and the Butterfly and working on his second. His poetry has been published in The Isle Review, Blind Man’s Rainbow, and more recently in the latest issue of The Broad River Review, as well as in the upcoming issue of Compass Rose.