Robbed by Buddha

Sometimes Siddhartha’s words
are filled with the jingling laughter
of many golden bracelettes on the wrists
of a clapping woman.

Sometimes his words are chanting prayers
that flow off Siddhartha’s tongue
and get caught in my hair
and in the folds and creases
of my garments.

What do I know of prayer, Siddhartha?
My body has been the temple,
the shrine of adoration
many men have come to
for enlightenment and temporary relief
from all suffering.

And you bring me words
that will not cease chanting joy
to my ripe heart
and to the place within me
of all knowing.

I am confused by this open sky
and light above my head
that magnifies your face
like the Holy Ones.

Oh Siddhartha?
What spell,
what incantations
do you weave around me?

I am captured.
I am goddess
of all things wonderful
rolling off the waterfall
of your beautiful lips.

Do not ask me for my purse.
I have already given it to you.