It was only the dawn
of the Christian
movement, but Jerome
was already wise
to it—he knew
that but for a man
who is not a man
trapped inside books
would latter-day painters
lose their perspective
somewhere along
the vanishing point.
So he tied his body to a
great denial and scolded
his widow patron’s daughter
for the crampy hungers
gathering in hers.
Leaving behind his
ascetic theater he let
his rags polish the floors
as he delighted in the
intercourse of a
little night reading.
The dog-faced lion
played along, shedding
the sweaty mane-cape,
rewarded each night for
his loyalty
with a bowl of kibble.
Jerome gazed out
of the casement
at a beautiful scene,
stars fanning the cool
expanse of lapis
desert dome,
and chuckled
to himself, “No one
paints a saint
in a great library
built through the pilfer
of a pious widow’s gold.”
A scholar, he knew
that sainthood, just like
good translation,
requires a bit of
finger pointing,
and some ethically
questionable
sleight of hand.
__________________________________
From Druthers. Used with permission of the publisher, Flood Editions. Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Moxley.
