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
do you walk differently, unsure, unsteady
not knowing how to gauge the space between
do you stumble on the rough silences
but fear to reach out a steadying hand
family neighbors friends guests once
so memory insists, a probable illusion
I still offer greetings returned with sharp stares
And sometimes such hostility that I’m forced off the sidewalk
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.
there with the stretcher
a cane propped beside the door
in bed
fever-glazed, coughing-seized, weakened
laughter at my slow crawl
the ambulance bumping
bewilderment over casual cruelty
slamming doors
faint words of thanks unheard
a text
a lesson
He offers this as a gift.
Black and neon green, it could be anime.
Lighter than a ceramic cup, it could be a toy.
The bullets make it real. They look like what they are.
Good intentions unmasked; detailed directions to the grave.
Black depression now armed stalks me through the back streets.
Overhead the waiting raptors kettle as they keep watch.
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?
