Robert Wyllie

The Conversion of the Magus

Nobody follows stars and nor

do mages travel by night when war

is warned of—Parthians spar with Romans—

a’ carrying calendars, star-charts, omens.

“Eight-pointed Ishtar, Mulbabbar, freedom,”

we babble, O dotard king of Edom,

contorting the heavens to mirror your fears.

“How long was its rising?” Think quick! “Two years.”

I never meant for babes to be killed.

In myth and starlight weaving, half-skilled;

and for telling tyrants news they can’t be told,

men gift me frankincense and gold.

Our camels stare through all this foolery:

heliacals, decans, costume jewelry.

The first inn we find in the city of David

I ask after maidens recently gravid.

Miss counted us kings who miscounsel kings;

I knelt and I cried and I gave her my rings.

While somebody somewhere is chanting an antiphon,

I somehow am sure that I gaze on the antichthon.

Robert Wyllie is an assistant professor of political science at Ashland University and a contributing editor to The Lamp magazine.