A Woman’s Way of Knowing Truth

A woman
who makes her way
in the knowledge of soft skin
and the dark night of her hair—
the trusted strength of her legs
and upright beauty of her neck and back
is a mystery to the spirit
of those who do not believe
in the world of blood and heat
that must flow from one generation of body
to the next wailing body.

I hold my hands out
in wonder as I touch the face
of another lover,
pull him close enough to view
the black depths of his soul.

This extraordinary perspective of all time,
captured in one beautiful face after another,
has never failed to excite me.

The great experiment of seeking truth--
making her way from yani
to the heart—
and only then finding a voice
and the vision of eternity
to be released slowly
from the crown
of the willing.

It is here that I found the wonder of you, Siddhartha.
I never expected to hand over the keys
to my garden gate so willingly
to a man like you.

A woman like I am
would fight the ferryman
on the River Styx for freedom
from the likes of you—
and yet I have surrendered willingly
to the light I have found
in the empty place in your hungry belly
and mind.

Making Gold

Before Siddhartha the beggar
there were men—
many men who came to join with my body
leaving coins and gems
at the foot of my bed
after they released their power
and their fear,
their anger and their sorrow,
hope and glory
into the depths of my darkness.

Sometimes even love landed
at the bottom of this well
sparkling, catching some distant light.
Tenderness and gentle gestures
played at the longing for more—
shadow puppets on the screens
of my chambers.

But suddenly
the empty poverty
of a man I never knew,
his heart outstretched
toward the place of plenty in me,
between my breasts--
between my eyes—
in the heat of my blood—
drained my cup
like a thirsty vagabond,
ready to crush the grapes of a new wine.

What are you now, Siddhartha, all these years later?
Why did you come to change everything?

We were earth
and the makings of the richest soil
from which gold and truth
would be mined.


Wanting All

It is a comfort to know
I have long since given up
the shell of the rag doll
I once was—
the toy men came to admire
and amuse themselves with
in that garden of wanting.

Now that green place is a resting place,
a quiet place where monks meditate
and there are no women who indulge desire
for anything but peace.

The summer days drift silent as history there,
simple food for the spirit,
in moving patterns of leaves,
the cross current of answered prayers,
where the meaning of bones is sometimes discovered
only to be forgotten in the next breath.

In that other life, Siddhartha,
I don’t regret offering you everything.
Wanting all and finding you
filling every empty space
was my greatest joy.
Every fiber in every cell
was waiting to absorb you
so that I might be ready
for this journey to the Buddha.

I hold the hand of our small son
you have never known
and I am glad to be holding part of you—
the foundation on which your body was built
has taken his place next to me.
Here on the banks of a river
I know I am home
in that place you left for me
to become the temple
of all wanting—
that sacred place of loving
the exact moment
of each day
aware of the high stakes
of just placing one foot
in front of the other.

It is this desire to focus
on the love of a child
where I have forgotten
to want anything else.