Via Negativa

You look so beautiful, at peace
and in your own spirit, says a friend
that the Buddha has not seen in a while.
She beams and hugs her back, while mentally
reminding herself to check in the mirror
for what might have spurred this compliment.
The Buddha has her hair loosely pinned up
because of the humidity; she’s in dark-
colored jeans, a t-shirt, and faded cardigan
even on a workday, just because comfort
now comes first. Every so often, on special
occasions, she’ll wear a dress and heels,
put on some makeup— foundation, eye
shadow, lipstick, mascara. Now that she’s
past 50, she finally knows what it means
to not give a damn: to be unbothered
by the decision to not go out drinking with
her students; to eat breakfast for dinner
and dessert for breakfast; to not be non-
plussed when a wind lofts her skirt above
her knees, when a rolling wave slaps down
the top of her strapless swimsuit at the public
beach. She simply tugs the offending garment
back in place, smiles, shrugs, carries on.

The Buddha listens as her friend G
remembers the day a pair of cops came
to her home, to break the news:

they’d fished out her son’s body
from the Shuylkill river— no marks
of violence, his pockets empty, his feet

unshod. You know in your bones, says G.
Her mother, who opened the door, crumpled
to the floor like a sheet yanked

from the line. In old myths and sacred texts
are passages which describe how, when a child
is born, a life index plant is set in the soil

by the front door, along with his mother’s
afterbirth. Whatever happens to the child
is mirrored in the curling vine, the wild

hibiscus, the golden shower tree. No words
were needed for what shriveled like a leaf
in the heart, constricted the gut:

invisible blow dealt to the base
of the staff, lone bird that held out its
familiar note in the wood, now stilled.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

of expectations, of the million and one ways
in which the bread might not rise, the cup

might not run over, the tire might go flat,
the light bulb go out. She is tired of the times
intention is thwarted, detoured, outright taken

over by some other outcome less ideal than what
was originally desired. The Buddha is tired
of going last, eating the crust, saving

the ribbons and the wrapping paper, reheating
the scraps; being the open door, the one they come to,
the shoulder to cry on, the purse that both makes do

and makes it right. She wants to be the one not
singled out by The Boss for turning her Out of Office
message on, while others go away without so much as a by-

your-leave. Who wrote the rules about selflessness and virtue,
about retribution in coin or in kind? All everyone wants
every now and then is to be seen for what they really are.

In response to Via Negativa: No trespassing.