Desert Ascent
John of Climachus
I. At eighty he still scales the ladder to God; so long spent
on the thirty rungs that he begins to doubt visions of angels--
all halos and no legs, until demons take over
his dreams-- all ebony silhouettes-- equipped
with lassos and bows. He longs for solitude.
II. No wooden ladder mine, but metal, too short
for heaven and leaning against the house in the rain.
Once again I delay clearing the gutters until
water drips down the bedroom wall.
Alone, I scrape leaves from roof, gutter, downspout,
shove them over the side, wondering if I can manage
to hold the ladder steady as I step over the parapet
to back down. All I want is down.
III. In the icon, those eager to be near
Christ jostle John up his ladder. Do you recognize
your face among the monks tumbling from the rungs?
How high had you gone before a devil fluttered
his wings and lured you off? Did he need
his lasso or his bow and arrow? Or were you pushed?
There are no temptations visible in the burnished gold leaf,
just your reflection, created by protective glass--
the monks and their companions held in the climb
towards heaven,
where it feels as though I intrude
(my eyelashes as long as the monks are tall)
though I’ve plenty of company: The patriarchs in the corner,
the pilgrims behind John, angels and demons, museum guests,
the priest who traveled from Sinai with the art.
Assured of one companion, dwelling in awe, and a panoramic
view of the rigorous Sinai, I might find it possible to grasp
a rung at shoulder height, put my foot on that first step.
Previously published in St. Peter’s B‑List:
Contemporary Poems Inspired by the Saints
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