Woman Alone

The world does not know me
as the one who stands alone—
a woman naked in front of the mirror
solitarily examining the outline of the places
so many have traveled
to find companionship or adventure—
a place of respite
from the drudgery
of the world.

Always I am at the side
or entwined in the grasping embrace
of a man—
the focus of a longing
never fully satisfied.
A hunger for nothing
but more.

In this body
I have been witness
to the payment and gifts
given over for pleasure.
Shining and golden,
I have seen what people
give of themselves
in the search of happiness—
always moving forward
toward the true path.

The world has seen me as accomplice
or crafty conspirator—
the bandit to blame
for misfortune—
the guilt attributed
like a crown of thorns
to be placed on my weary head.

My red blood runs freely
from those punctures
like any other woman
who has been that close
to the danger of truth,
but I walk near the wounded
with no shame,
my back straight and regal
my head held high.

I walk alone
on my own way.
The only way.
For I know
it is into my own eyes
I must glance with loving
at the end of sleep.

I must sit quiet
and content
at the sound
of my own strong heart
beating absolutely alone—
the drum
that guides me home.

Dreaming of a Caged Bird’s Death

In a thousand years
after the karma of our sins
has washed deep into the roots
of the Banyen tree,
has been taken up to the highest branches
to blossom unashamed,
opening fully to the warmth of the sun—

it is here
we will listen
to the sweet song
of the bird who warned you
of death and the lessons of Samsara.

This caged bird has so many secrets
chained to her small soul.
This prison of slender golden bars
is no place to hide
from the exchanges of flesh
and whispers of bold desire
that have played on the stage
of my bedcovers.

Though she may have averted her eyes
at the moment of penetration,
the stabbing sound of pleasure
and suffering could not be ignored
by this creature of wings
whose only purpose
was to flutter prettily
with song.

What is this fear you bring to my loving arms now, Siddhartha,
like a child waking from a dream of demons and finding surprise
at the death of a nightingale?

Did you not know this was her fate--
to please you into a sleeping bliss
so that you might awake fully
from this drunken numbness—
to feel more empty
and alive than anyone
you have ever known?

Let me cup the softness
of the gift of her body
in my hands, Siddhartha,
I will place her empty shell
on the rising and the falling
of the breath in your chest,
where the bird must burn
and escape as white as smoke—
her ashes evidence of hope
we all can be transformed
into holy light
in this dream of discovery.

Let me open the door of the cage
and witness your flight
into fragrant flowers.
I will not fail to listen
for your beautiful voice
chanting in peace.