Looking for Words
The old oracle, whose healing songs soothed my childhood fevers, is ill. It is a humid July evening as I make my way to her hut. I have found an old photo of her talking to the King. I feel she might like the memento.
She runs a finger over the pale images and smiles. She opens, closes her palms.
Mosquitoes whine in her dark room.
She straightens the folds of her yak wool blanket and says, ‘There’s nothing.’
I make her some tea. She dips the photo into the steaming wooden bowl and stirs.
cave temple –
eyes ofMeditating Buddha
in lightning flashes