The Buddha marvels

at the way the blue chameleon-
woman changes form: one moment
a foreign general at a diplomatic
summit, and then the midget evil
scientist who wants to cleanse the world
of all mutations. Each time she changes,
the camera catches a new corona of colors
framing the irises of her eyes— copper
and metallic grey, hummingbird green,
swift kick of the foot to catch the enemy
in the groin or jaw. He marvels too
at the talons unsheathed from between
the knuckles of the wolf-faced man:
how he winces each time the body’s flesh
is pierced, is bullet-shattered; then heals.
Who is this boy who tried to but could not
save his mother, and so grew up magnetized
by his own story of guilt and loss? Fate
might as well be a train, and our desire
the wish to bend the tracks away from their
set course. And oh, the lonely crippled one
whose gift or curse is to know the pain
and suffering of all— how the myriad sounds
they make are one voice, including his: wanting
to be understood, taken in for what they are.

2 Comments


  1. sitting in his wheelchair, there to fill a quota, with a body broken, crumpled, compact small
    as if each bone was denied an extension and each muscle fibre withered away. I hurriedly
    found the change in my pocket, delighted at the sound it made hitting the tin bottom. His voice jumping out of his mouth premature gurgled sAnque……he said, as I walked away.

    Reply

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