Tortured by a thirst that wasn’t physical,
I forced myself to stagger forward
across a sunless desert.
An angel with six wings,
two at his shoulders, two at hips,
two at heels—a seraph, appeared to me
as I came to a crossroads.
With fingers soft as the onset of sleep
he touched my eyes. They opened
on prophetic vision—suddenly,
farseeingly wide
as those of a startled eagle.
He touched my ears, I heard
then such a roaring that they rang.
I heard how the heavens shudder,
with an inaudible thunder,
when a flock of angels rushes by on high.
I could hear the cold remote motion
of undersea beings, the soundless sound
of vines as they climb.
The seraph bent down close to my face,
tore the sly, glib sinful tongue
from my mortal mouth,
replaced the numb teeth
in my jaw frozen open in fright,
with serpent fangs and speech
of wisdom biting deep:
such gory force
was in that angel’s hand.
As first with fear, then with sword
he clove my chest,
took out the pulsing heart.
In the gape he placed
a coal with mane of flame.
I lay on the sand like an unburied corpse,
and from heaven came resounding down,
“Stand up, prophet, see now as a seer,
act in the world as one who hears
the voice of God—travel lands,
cross seas, and heat the people’s hearts
till they burn with the Word.”
illustration: Derek Owens