St Julian The Hospitaller – a poem by Alysse Aallyn

God said, “Bring for the creeping things”
It is you who are a creeping thing thinks Lord Julian
Of his pasty priest, with the
Underdone face.

Were he a fish I’d throw him back.
Good thing his knees are flexible as his
Scripture. The priest speaks
Of dominion, something

His lordship understands. It means
Possession without surrendering the
Self. Power begs abuse.
He’s the master, he alone

Understands that here. Necessity’s
The chain that stops the dumb animal
Straying. Lifting eyes to the
Steepled trees he feels the boredom of fall

Fade into the dullness of winter.
The animals would be fat
Were any left – ripe for scissoring but
He ripped too many out.

Life’s start and stop – a blood bath brings
Renewal. These men could stand a wallowing.
They await his pleasure with
Lowered eyes.

His pleasure is not them. He needs
Men glamorous as girls, hopes
As high as fever but none
Are to be found.

Like the animals, they are gone.
Julian’s scarred hands twitch the reins –
Each scar is named, he counts them proudly:
Attempted usurpation

The burning brand, the bear that fought
The dog that turned on him
The boar defending young.
Past pain surmounted

Makes him long for wounds –
A cut so deep he looks into
The creature’s eyes for
Some sweet glimpse of freedom.

Lord Julian, the scorpion-hearted
Scents a smell the dogs can’t follow –
The jingling behind him should be men
The silky shadow should be deer.

His horse afraid – the creature moves
Too smooth – when he dismounts
Avenger plummets off – now
He’s alone in moss and slime.

This thing is stalking him!
He sees it through the trees
Smells hot stink – a tiger!
What ghost is this?

The prickled hairs stood high – he threw
His knife – a sailor’s trick but
Useless. He saw boars
Twelve deep, spirals snorting

Through their tusks. The trees
Morphed into deer and every beast
He’d ever killed surrounded him.
Face forward in the muck

At least the mud was real.
Fox feet pattered, the tiger whisked him
With its ruff – he dreamed a lifetime
Lying there – every friend a slight

And every promise broken.
This dark that stops his ears is surely death.
But when he stands it’s not hell he sees but
Dripping swamp. The mare he kicked and drove

Now leads him home. His blood is dried
But he must cleanse the blood of others.
To be struck he understands, now he must
Know what spared him.

Washerwomen lift their heads
At his approach – they don’t recognize this man.
Hiding faces not from fear but
Some new glory.