I am a juggler
in the desert
searching past a burnt sienna
ridge.
It curves ahead of me
like the wrinkled brow on earth’s
forehead.
My own face
remains hidden under a monk’s cowl,
but sunburned arms are stretched
free
from the holy enclosure.
I balance those seven letters in my
hands.
Fiat lux.
They are a god’s command that died
long ago for lack of interest.
Still I cannot hold them,
for each one burns like gold into
my skin
creasing palms with their metal
heat.
So I juggle
letters as sharp-edged as a
heretic’s bite,
straining to hear at least one
answer.
Each word contains an ancient
parable
speaking church Latin
about being and light.
Then Anthony, the hermit,
walks by with his habit dragging in
the sand.
He quietly opens both hands
revealing those same mysterious
words
worn smooth by a hundred years of
handling.
He turns without a sound,
and steps into the last purple
painting
that hangs in the dark forever.
But the letters glow like golden
bookmarks.
I am a juggler again
with hands curving to the light
and stretching
to the indifferent desert.
Inside that
circle remain all the answers.
Outside is but
a single question.