Mystic, The

Her eyes burn,

her heart burns,

her fever burns.

Swollen lips murmur delirious syllables

as if of ecstasy

of pain.

A devout old nun,

heart at attention,

bathes her,

holds her holy sputum in a bowl.

The leech lets more blood.

In the cold outer room

behind the grille

wait the poor:

runny noses, bedraggled hair.

They snuffle and twist

rags of hats in their callused hands.

The old nun emerges

clutching a word tightly to her breasts.

"She said 'Dove,"

she tells them,

The poor smile;

they understand.

They go around, through the gardens,

to the scullery door

Where the old nun gives them porridge,

bread.

They return to the fields

pausing, midday, to toss a few grains

for the mottled pigeon.

Their throats tighten with hope

at the bursting sound of her wings,

at the white flash of her flight.

SHERYL SLOCUM*

* Sheryl Slocum is President of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.

Copyright Anglican Theological Review, Inc. Winter 2001
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