CASSANDRA IN FLORIDA

She is large, and largely immobile
and occupies the bench by the road
that encircles the property like a noose.

She does this each day, a crust
or more of stale bread tucked away
in a pocket of her always floral

housedress that envelopes her
and the bench she occupies
as a monarch on her throne.

The ibis see her coming and gather
at her feet like acolytes awaiting
words from their sage and goddess.

She doesn’t disappoint them, telling
them a tidbit of the world, more often
who was taken sick overnight, who

died yesterday, always a shock
she says, then whispers conspiratorially,
but actually expected, of course,

for everyone here has numbered days,
and then tells them stories of her life,
real and imagined, the veil between

her truth and her fiction now diaphanous.
They grow impatient, but a good queen
reads her subjects and reaches

into the pocket pulling out the crusty
bread, smiles at her flock, says see, I bring
manna and together we cross the desert.

First Published in Chantarelle’s Notebook, March 2019
https://chantarellesnotebook.com/2019/03/22/

ANGUO’S “THE MASTER’S FLESH IS STILL WARM”

If you are asked “who are you?”
how will you reply, and who
is the person asking the question?
If you answer, you are blind
if you say nothing you speak loudly.
The sage will tell you
that there is no you and if
you doubt him he will hold up
a mirror and ask what you see.
If you answer “I see myself”
he will laugh because no one
can see themselves unless
they see everyone, for you
are both the reader
and the writer
of these poor words.


A reflection on case 131 of the Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye)

CHINDI

They come down from the hills
long after the sun
retreats beyond Tres Piedras.
In the moonless sky
they creep around the pinyon,
nestle the sage that
blankets the mesa, stare
at the scattered homes
that dot the half-frozen soil.
They are orange flames
compressed inside orbs
paired, they approach
here one set, there another.
The wind whistles through
the Rio Grande Gorge
here a mere whisper.
The wild rabbits perk,
fly through the sage
in lupine terror.
One brays to the stars
and inside the house
the fur on the cat’s back
bristles. It’s just a coyote,
he says, nothing
to be afraid of here.
At night, they say,
this land is once again
ours, and we hold
the key to the human prison.