In the churches of Rome
(and others across the world)
where there are four empty spaces
artists lease them out
to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John—
the four whose narratives survived
the test of time:  

John with his eagle,
Mark with his lion,
Luke with his ox,
Matthew—just a man.  

My gaze wanders upward
here in the chapel of Saint Isidore,
distracted from my prayers
to wonder at the four sails high above,
these mariner-authors heroic in Baroque trappings:
What are they thinking?  

Luke’s account doesn’t lumber like the ox
over his shoulder but skips with the Spirit
and stops to notice the widow and Beggar Lazarus
on the doorsteps of his story,
those really poor,
not in spirit (sorry Matt) but in fact.  

Mark roars at times,
and pauses to elaborate unlike the others
on hemorrhage, the din of mourners,
a man lowered through Peter’s mother-in-law’s ceiling
(Who’ll  sweep up tis mess?).
the Master spitting to make clay to cure blindness,
demons in swine tumbling into the lake,
groanings and even anger
(muted by translators),
and the Pharisees with their
cups and jugs and kettles and beds oh my,
not a lion but perhaps a journalist.  

John soars of course.
No doubt he’d like the eagle,
but some wish he’d land the plane
and tip his hand (anonylmous)
as to all he saw firsthand,
not saving until the final chapters
where he rests his head at the table,
revealing his intimacy with the Beloved.  

And Matthew— just a man,
scribbling alone in hundreds of wedges
and ovals and sculptures—
churning out what became the standard,
heading the tale of four,
up there with quill and parchment,
toiling for the ages.