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words #15

365 Buddhas

The chevron of her heartbeat
measured my hours,
her EKG monitor was my clock.
There was no dawn,
no sunset, no lunar phases,
just an open book on my lap,
the pages unturned.

He gave us wounds
like other people give gifts,
carefully chosen for each of us
and wrapped in bourbon and beer.

He wrote my name in salt
and foretold my destiny
in the tea-leaf patterns
of bruises across my skin.

She gave me time.
She waited, listened,
She was a phoenix.
At 55, she was buried in ashes.
She wept them into mud
and made a golem of herself.
She used it to build a house. Her golem
transformed graveyards
into vineyards just so she could see
the purple grapes against pumpkin spice sunsets.
When she traveled the world,
her golem fed her cat.


I’ve run into a problem, which is that…

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