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Kviv was not the garden of my childhood. I ate fresh lychees harvested by my father, the trees loaded with ruby fruit and the severed heads of his friends. A Khmer Rouge general, seated on a white mare, crossed the rice paddy, hunting, harvesting the souls of children. I buried my body deeper in the muddy water, barely breathing. Gaza was not the garden of my childhood. I can remember the jungle gym, laughter from jumping double dutch, then adding, subtracting, multiplying, drawing on the vast white board of the jungle floor. I fed on the sweetened rice water ladled from the dented pot over open flames, tended to by grandmother, humming to no one. I smelled the rotted bark mixed with rain collected in leaf cones and the roasted flesh of rats. I conquered oceans of hunger, but not of longing. Sudan was not the garden of my childhood. Cursed from birth, I grew up instinctively knowing how to hide, never the seeker. My country made me crawl on hands and knees over fields of sun bleached skulls and shattered teeth. When they asked me my name, my heart exploded like a thousand splendid suns. |
MAKING LENTIL SOUP WHILE CHANTING THE HEART SUTRA
(after Billy Collins)
(after Billy Collins)
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I chop carrots into non-forms while standing next to the Tenzo, toque askew, sweaty forehead, harried. I wondered where he learned to dice onions like Jacque Pépin. Did his buddy Julia Childs teach him to tuck his fingers while chopping with a chef’s knife or is it a Santoku that is used? Did Gautama also use a half stick of butter to brown his sole meunière? The monks were hungry. Shariputra urged us to work faster. Meanwhile, Gautama was rehearsing for Top Chef, Mumbai. He moved deftly from onion to celery to minced garlic. I sort and wash the red lentils without sight, sound nor touch. After adding the vegetable broth, Gautama tasted the soup with no nose, no tongue, no realm of mind consciousness. I ladle and fill each alms bowl, half with soup, the other half emptiness. “I need a cold beer” he said, wiping sweat. |
CHALLAH FOR SUSAN
CHALLAH FOR SUSAN
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Ingredients: Dash of hope Generous sprinkle of tears Pinch of regret 2 sticks childhood memories 1 cup late night phone calls Handful of laughter Years of silence Preparation: Preheat oven to warm. Lightly fold in love and attention. Knead dough until gentle yet firm to the touch. Wait for dough to rise and double in size. Add seasoning to taste. Stir in 30 years of laughter, tears, hurt, then silence. Divide dough into 2 equal portions. Roll each portion into 3 ropes. Braid the 3 ropes together. Pinch ends together to seal. Bake until golden brown. Makes 2 loaves. Best served hot, torn, not cut. May be eaten individually at separate tables. |
A TREE DOES NOT REJECT ANY FORM OF WATER
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My friend, a white-breasted nuthatch, burrows in the warmth of my body, in a cavity gifted by his friend, a pileated woodpecker. My friend decorates my trunk like a Jackson Pollack canvas, compliments of his breakfast. Scents of jasmine and freesias explode like grenades. My friend, Zeke, is the first every morning to soak my feet, followed by his friend, Miss Muffin, who daintily declares her territory, even as the coyote also claims her home at dawn, already sultry and humid. Petals of bougainvillea lodge in my mane, Which breathes in carbon dioxide, And exhales oxygen. Rain showers my crown, loosening dirt from my locks flecked with amber and sienna, to be set free by the storms which follow. The valley is redolent of yeast from vats of fermenting grapes. Now, icicles form jewels on my bare eyelashes and outstretched fingers. Hoar frost covers my feet like wet socks, to freeze daffodils, tulips and hyacinths so they will burst forth when the jasmine and my nesting friend return. |
3 tankas/wakas and 2 haikus
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I. Tea Ceremony Entering the gate one contemplates poem on scroll sits on tatami sound of matcha whisked in bowl harmony sipped with respect II. Walking in a Winter’s Night Walking in forest snow encrusted pine needles heavy with burden pining for love not like needles piercing my heart III. Summer Moon Rain tapping on roof cacophony of the wind moon mooning in jest broken heart breaks wide open while tears fall in my cold beer. IV. Satori Frogs leaping in joy lotus floats in muddy pond Where are my car keys? V. The Hermit Only a tea cup in my hut in the mountains peace in every sip |