I wait for you to catch up,
And what do I do while I wait?
Read the books I’ve carried to give you,
The books I’ve read until I know every word.
Study the maps I’ve collected,
The maps I’ve marked with all the places I’ve been.
Examine the cups from which I drank tea,
The cups I’ve crackled from so many steeps.
Hasten please, though I do not mind revisiting these things.
The day ever shortens; my journey beckons;
I cannot remain here long.
In the early morning of winter’s approach
I feel the cold singing in my bones
An old song that I heard when I was young
In the rooms where elderly relatives gathered
Easing themselves slowly into creaking chairs
Resting their hands on knobby canes
Warming themselves by the crackling fire
I sat in their front on the bare pine floor
The wind rattled the window panes and shook the door
Trying to gain attention but no one gave any mind
The freeze was already evident on the ground
Its notes played out in every step they took
In every movement I now make
No grief over the knowledge
That I’ve never seen my own face,
Only relief.
These images from different mirrors
Glittering back at me
In shop windows, photographs, and even a painting
Are mere appearances.
Likewise, one of my teachers suggested
That altars only have an bare space resting
Where the buddha would be.
On my altar I have placed a statue of Chenrezig,
The bodhisattva of compassion.
I still say “tea” with the same guttural “chrrr” that you used
And count the seconds to steep it using my fingers and my breath.
When I chant, I hear your lesson on the downward emphasis
Of “shok” at the end of a line in a Tibetan prayer.
I find books we studied a long time ago reappearing on my shelves.
You’re far away in another land in a home that I refused.
Yet I find that you remain with me, as you said you would.
Do I even want you to go away?
What did she hear on the journey?
The flame’s roar consumed everything that could burn.
The soldier’s laughter made a mockery of joy.
Her mother’s voice would never again say the blessing for taking challah.
Her father’s whispers; the creak of the sodden ship; her silence.
At Ellis Island the raucous seagulls wheeled overhead and cawed.
You will find the house empty
Front door swinging on a rusted dream
Kitchen table cluttered with broken hopes
Furniture dusted with faded memories
Not mine but others
I did not take anything
I left nothing of value
I travel light
Not the applauded figure that everyone wants to hear.
There are enough of those,
And I do not have a good loud voice.
But the small person who lingers at the edges,
Picking up what the listeners leave behind.
The discarded flyers the illusions they wished to abandon.
The crumpled snack packages the food they found unnourishing.
The paper cups the empty dreams they hoped to fill.
Carefully I place these in the designated receptacle.
As I walk back to my room, I ponder them with a sigh and a quiet laugh.
This is a very good life.
Hands busy with chopping
Suddenly stopping, knife in midair
Hearing a soft voice murmur with laughter
Throwing the onions in a sizzing hot pan
A gnarled hand gentle on my face, and the words
Sweetness comes after tears
All these, and I’ve no family.
I want to shut my eyes, to cry.
I’m tired, wearied to my bones
By conversations where I’m thrown
Again and again
Against the concrete walls of your expectations.
I lay crumpled on the ground,
My grief purpled by darkening bruises.
The walls, once white, are bloody and stained.
Where do you look, when you turn away?
Beneath my skin, these
Earliest shadows
Decay dripping from ancient trees
Murk surfacing hidden bayous
Roil foretelling terrible storms
Bruises left indelible
Look away
Do not talk of such things
I was afraid
Words leave marks worse than fists
Icy stares make you bleed
New shadows differently hued
Stench fouling beach sands
Molder crumbling leather-bound books
Rapine cutting through pine forests
Invisible stains just as before
Look away
Do not talk of such things
I was afraid
Fists leave marks almost like words
Other people’s bodies make you bleed
Swallow your voice
Choke on grief
Cover your indigo body
One day when I speak
My power will shatter the world