Hubert van Eyck and Jan van Eyck, The Ghent Altarpiece, c. 1432
The mystic lamb is looking at you. His eyes
face you as human eyes do, and he stands with a cheerful
blood-spurt coming from his chest. Something of a dance
in his four cloven feet. Golden light-rays all around his head.
Is there wind? The angels’ wings are held lightly behind them
like expensive accessories. The mystic lamb says, hey,
says, all eyes on me. He’s right. Right at the center. He’s
talking to you. Are you afraid? he asks, reading your mind.
Sure you are. Bloody sacrifice, always that judgement
on Eve—what’s that, Cain killing Abel in the frieze
above her head? Mistakes were made. You don’t need
religion to feel a little shiver. Something other looking
back at you, and the fine hairs all along your arm
rising up. Little high, little wild. But still, says the lamb.
Stay a while. I’ve put the angels on pause. Talk to me.
We can talk about the weather, the moon—anything.