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.

Last Night

Last night
after the music stopped,
after the candles burned
to stubs in their holders
and the oil was gone
from the lamps,
after the curtains were drawn
against the pending morning light,
after I washed my skin clean of sweat
and my yani fresh of sticky semen,

after you left me alone in the dark
to slumber after our sweetest rituals,
I wanted you again Siddhartha.
I wanted you like the first day
you shared your kisses,
like the first bread
I placed on your tongue.

I wanted you to admire
the curves of this body
and touch the wetness
of my hair,
finger the beads
that hung boldly
from my ears
and between my breasts.

Without you
I touched the tender smoothness
of my own nipples
and let my fingers find the sacred
slippery river banks of desire
hidden deep—
a treasure reserved
only for you now.

So great was my longing
to see your face,
inhale your warm breath,
to feel your hands on my hips
guiding yourself deep inside me—
around me like light

I could not be satisfied.

My own gifts of pleasure
drifted silent
on the breezes
of the darkest hours
where Star’s wisdom
hushed to the lost child in me
inconsolable into no sound at all.

The dawn doves came to mock me—
the exhausted Empress of nothing.

I stand prisoner in my own chamber
my arms held above my head
naked and facing the wall
begging the master
to open the door
and set me free.

Come back to me Siddhartha.
Fill my soul with your oldest wine.

Mistress Calling Consort

Come to me tonight
Invisible One.

No one must know
that I will become your teacher,
and that you, Siddhartha,
give up your vows
of poverty and faithfulness
to follow your body
toward the enlightenment
found between we two.

Dress in fine and simple clothing
and bring gifts –
the customary offerings
as your disguise,

but be confident and clearly hear
I have never felt this longing of spirit
in the excess of flesh and men
who have known me—
some hundreds of times.

There is nothing to fear
in your innocence
for you are called
to your first lessons.

It is said that the soul awakens,
overflows with light,
when she finds her consort.

You, beautiful beggar,
must heed the voice
of your mistress.

At The Edges of My Eyes

What do you look at Siddhartha
at the edges of my eyes
near the places
worry and smiles have marked
with lines?

You tell me of the silently beautiful mouth
of Gotama and I cannot hear enough
of that kind of peace.

I have felt the universe vibrate
inside the edges of my mouth
and just under the surface of my skin—
this inner earthquake
trembling all I know at the foundation of spirit.

You enlighten me with these stories
of the blessed one
and I take silent vows
to give away the garden
to this holy man.

I know tonight
I will make love to you,
one last time, Siddhartha,
before you leave my side
having etched your face into the first cells
of your son.
He has been waiting quietly at this spirit door
and will enter and grow in the space
you will vacate in my body.

I will extract as much as I dare
when your body joins with mine,
my sweet Love,
for I will need as much of you as you can give—
nourishment for all the long days and nights
that will come too soon without you.

I will gather stories from your skin
and laughter from your hair.
I will touch your feet
with my grateful tears
and release eternity
from the dust of all your travels.

But now, Siddhartha,
you look at me,
you look through me,
you look to the future,
eager to leave this suffering
and all samsara.

Come now, Love
into my bed,
into the long night,
so that I might kiss you
farewell.

This Overflow

I could not have known what love is
if I had never felt this longing.

Anything done in excess
becoming boring except this overflow
that moves toward you.

--Rumi Translated by Coleman Barks

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.