On Nosebleeds

Even if under the surface there's always
a lot going on, my friends insist I look 
so zen— like a buddha who's trascended 
this vale of suffering, another quips. 
Which I reject, because even if the buddha
may have reincarnated into this form— my form—
the fact that I'm still here means that I'm
nowhere near nirvana. If I've managed to exude
a semblance of calm, perhaps it's because
I had a little bit of early training. For instance, 
I got nosebleeds every day until I reached third 
grade: the sudden jets of blood, the bright taste 
of copper in my throat in the middle of reading,
adding, or listening. Someone would pinch
the bridge of my nose with a wad of paper towel, 
and take me to the principal's office so I wouldn't 
disturb the classroom lesson. The surprise 
of the first time lapsed a little more into 
the ordinary after each repetition. One day
something spills down the front of your white
blouse, and each day after you learn how 
to manage. Adulthood is pretty much a long
practice in composure— learning to lean
forward a little bit without panicking,
until something in the body rights itself 
and the frightening gush peters out, 
after which you clean up the mess.