Saint John of the Cross stood up in his
prison cell and the stones became
donuts
He knew it was from the devil so he
did not eat.
He knew if he ate his state could go dark
the radiant escalators of his
innermost sunlight would vanish
the skies of black brilliance in which he
dwelt showered by God direct would
congeal in a sodden cloud
He turned and glanced out the
shimmering licorice bars of the window onto the
vague milky daylight and
swallowed his dry swallow in which
the fresh cascades of Andalusia
splashed refreshingly into his heart
and sat down again this time on his
hard bed which by Divine Grace had become
a donkey riding him across green
mountainsides aglitter with sparrows
above the churning sea of God’s Good Pleasure
crashing against the
rocks of his heartbeats below
~ ~ Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore
From The Caged Bear Spies the Angel, in preparation.
