by Jeffrey Essmann
There is a terror in the perfect placement of sun-blanched clouds in a mid-March sky (too blue, too pure to register entirely in the human eye); a shudder at the unknown power of roses (red, of course, but yellow… but white…); a sweet panic —sudden; wild— at the mind divine that thought of putting prisms in the wings of a fly as it jolts across the page of my book in an August sun. If this be the fear of God I can only say (beg): make me shake, O Holy One. Make me shake.
Jeffrey Essmann is a poet and essayist living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, among them Dappled Things, U.S. Catholic, the St. Austin Review, America Magazine, Grand Little Things, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.