Traveling to the End of the Path

It was easy to stop by the side of the road
and the end of one day on our long journey,
to succumb to the whining boy-child,
tired and hungry,
to hand him a sweet banana
from my bundle,
crouch near him—my hand softly assured
on his dusty foot,
and allow my eyes to close,
my own exhausted self
given the succor of stillness
near this river.

The sting of the viper
should not have been
a surprise in this vulnerable pose,
my defenses down,
awake yet unaware.

This life has, if nothing else, proven
over and over again
why I needed to protect myself.
Men, my collection of vipers here on Earth,
have been welcomed into my bed as an art.

I have controlled this danger
like a skilled snake charmer
in the marketplace
holding my heart,
the spirit part of me—
well away from the body
at arms length
just outside striking distance,
the distraction my dancing flesh
there so that I might rise above the basket
and trap the poison inside.

Now as the venom races through my blood so painfully
into my limbs and consuming my organs,
blackening my wounded skin,
I know I am at the birthing canal of death.

What miracle is it then
that brings you to me, Siddhartha,
my lovely viper,
as if in a dream
before this life leaves me.
You wrap your kindness around my hand,
coil into that warm place inside me,
that stone core heated by the sun
the center of my safe inner world.

I must tell you,
before I can no longer speak,
that I came here looking for peace
draped in the cloak of a stranger’s story.

I have found it, not there with the wise Gotama,
but in the changing shadows of your eyes, Siddhartha,
in the truth of your enlightened gaze.

It is here I am released,
just as I was all those years in your arms
and powerful loving gaze.
Even now I unprepared for such grace,
where I will again be removed
from all samsara.

If you will kiss my cooling lips
one last time, Siddhartha,
I will leave you
with my peace.

That is the way
I should like to travel
to the end of this path.