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Jonathan Humphrey

Veils

“As mortals, we’re ruled by conditions, not by ourselves.” 
                                               – Bodhidharma 

Whenever I close my eyes there is a dark veil. If I’m trying to recall someone’s name, the veil takes on a purple hue, like a ripened eggplant. If I’ve been watching a pair of Mexican finches, their red heads bobbing, the veil catches fire at the edges, and I can briefly glimpse behind to another, lighter veil. When mourning the loss of a father, the veil is cold and solid, like slate, and no amount of wind or sorrow ripples its face. After watching a sushi chef prepare sashimi, I notice the veil, and the countless veils behind it, grow thin. I remember the word diaphanous and sense a vast space brooding beyond the layers. Cathedral. Canyon. Cave. But there are too many veils. O, Bodhidharma. You cut off your eyelids. You cast them aside.

blinding sun
deer enter the twilight
of their lives 

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About the Author

Jonathan Humphrey’s work has recently appeared in Acorn, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, and The Heron’s Nest. With a fondness for whiskey and whippoorwills, he divides his time between the lights of Nashville and the woods of his native Kentucky.