Matthew Pullar

POETRY

Dermatillomania

“Dermatillomania” read by Matthew Pullar.

From henceforth let no man trouble me: for I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus. — Galatians 6:17

There are trenches under the ocean, the depths
of which no one knows, the weight
and density on bones crushing before we
begin to fathom.

There is a canyon that cuts across a quarter of Mars
like a gash, a scar, almost
as deep as Earth’s deepest trench, twice as
long, thrice as wide.

There are chasms thick with shame no one
but Jesus will know. Pierced
like a slave, like a convict, but only
inside. No android probe can see.

Saint Bridget of Sweden probed the thousands
on thousands of blows on Christ’s flesh, prayed
fifteen times a day to name
and sound the depths of each one.

The caverns of these wounds plunge deeper than
mind can comprehend. But apprehend
the sorrows, the mercies carved into
those gouges of grace.

Rovers scan Mars for ancient streams.
I poke my flesh to reveal its ravines.
Christ downs vinegar and bleeds.
For the sake of the passion, be free.

Apocalypse Where?

“Apocalypse Where?” read by Matthew Pullar.

Broad daylight.
Morning service, reading
from Revelation 5, and I
am now old enough to know
the seven seals are not mammals.

Old enough, in fact, to stare
through the clear glass cross behind the altar
and stare
into suburbia, wondering where
is this revelation that we are awaiting?

Old enough, even, to have leapt over seas
in obedience to calls I now second-guess.
Old enough to have looked at my soul
and found it lacking, a thing like glass.

The grass beyond the cross is well-kempt.
Suburbia sings its pleasant Sunday songs.
No one is worthy to open the seals.
The apostle weeps. The preacher emotes the distress.
I am a cold thing.
A chasm stands between me and my feeling of the word.
I stare through glass and am empty.

And this emptiness, this suburban flatness,
terrifies, like a yawning beast. I have leapt
over oceans, am swept back again. I misheard a calling.
I hear nothing calling.

I am old enough to be empty. I am old enough to know
the black holes in the fabric of things, the tiny
abysses that puncture everything.
Not old enough to be fearless. Not
brave enough to withstand.

Screw bravery. I am
old enough to scream.
And I will scream, scream bravely,
until You come and bind the broken
scroll unraveling in me.

Matthew Pullar is a poet based in Melbourne, Australia. His poetry and prose have featured in The Reformed Journal, Ekstasis, Fare Forward and Amethyst Review. His most recent collection, This Teeming Mess of Glory (Wipf & Stock, 2025), was shortlisted for Australian Christian Book of the Year.

Next (Natasha Bredle) >
< Previous (Linette Rabsatt)

Image: Coprates Chasma landslides on Mars, NASA / JPL-Caltech / Arizona State University, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.