Consorts

I’m jealous of monks.
It’s true.
I want to be one,
but I suppose
with breasts
and one void too many
I can be only a nun.

We all can play the skull damaru.

But I want to be with you
in the monastery
where all the teachers live,
singing songs like a baritone hive,
reading ancient texts,
bumping together our bald heads.

Forget the sewing.

In the courtyard
when we debate,
point after point
I will clap my hands
like dry lightning
until we both wake up.

Ha! Ha!

I will paint thangkas,
give buddhas your blue eyes,
but don’t make me
your peripheral, cutting dakini
unless you’ll be mine.
We could take turns being the metaphor,
the center of shrines.

A necklace of heads.

2012