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.

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