j o h n d f r y
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we lifted our eyes to the hills |
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we lifted our eyes to the hills how we’d lifted burnt offerings, our hearts. as shorn things bleat, cling. for help had not come. for our bramble-bloodied feet slipped—He slept—shadowed by the absence of outstretched, His hand. could stave neither solar flares nor the oxidized green of moonglare watching over us, insomniac. we knew not why the slow subtraction (devil’s arithmetic) of our right wrist bones clamored, cold. as if pursued not by what, but whom were heavy-laden we looking for, Lord, where smoke risen from a ram’s scapula was its lampblack psalm, to the hills we lifted our eyes, tattered antiphons. thrumming our throats threadbare, sang deserts away from where we were promised benediction. our goodbyes blackened, our altars. for help had not come. |
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You the cradle |
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but what does a god lack?
overheard in the ex voto
church-dark: cassock’s tatter
unpolished chapel quiet, Our
Lady of the ashes long-unvisited
& a brink of dream dimly remembered
ragged, its never-mended hem: or, a passage
chosen by dowsing rod, the illuminated
page opened impromptu, prophesying
we shall not all sleep wilderness
a god lacks only lack
voices cry out but we shall
all be changed gargoyle choir
chanting to the swallow congregation
—truesilver sometimes lies—
no monsters here but a candlelit
monstrance only a heretic adores
& the most blessed sacrament no more
than memory’s aftertaste of reliquary bones in which restless
revenants linger like autumn
leaves swept from the narthex, unshriven
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JOHN D FRY is the author the chapbook silt will swirl (NewBorder) and a recent graduate of the Texas State University-San Marcos MFA program. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Offending Adam, Free Verse, Pebble Lake Review, This Spectral Evidence, and Konundrum Engine Literary Review, among others. He edits poetry for Newfound, book reviews for Front Porch, and lives in the Texas Hill Country. |
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