John Dee at the Apple Store

by Helena Aeberli

Show me your teeth, God. Tonight, at the Apple Store
under the unshut moon. Visit me tonight, God.
Fog this spirit mirror with your Word —
blind me with this new handheld eclipse.
Oh, but my head sings with standing
so long as the marrow of this sun-bleached bone.
Church as mirage. Along its aisles a mosaic of moments
shimmer like ghost-salt on the banks of the Thames.
Tonight, God, I’ll read a revelation in these circles,
scry myself a future in this tiny crystal disc. For now
hours pass as seances. One day you’ll call me inwards
and in I’ll walk
as the manmade moon glows ripely,
half-hungered, leaving tiny razored lips.