Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Chilling Out With Buddha

for Diana rooming with me in the 90's

Photo from HiyaHeidiblog.com

A woman, once my childhood friend,
is living in my home—
a red plastic bucket
on the beach of my solitude—
at a time in life
when women over 50
flounder in salty, hot seas,
widowed, nests-emptied
of disinterested children
careers tapped out, beauty
fading under the yellow froth
of middle age

Some women have men
in their homes.
I question
the tradeoff of serenity for
the carnal, mortal man—
I catch myself fingering
old beads better buried—
infidelities sewn into sachets
at the bottom of the bureau
under folded silk nightgowns
while I, in flannel pajamas, get
my own milk at bedtime.
In the darkness of my kitchen,
Buddha stares back at me in the glow
of the refrigerator light.

I try to find the cadence
of co-habitation, the exact measure
of compassion, and patience -
a mini-rehearsal for soloist
to sing duet, but I am flat.
There is no music here.
In silence, bent over
the dark path to my kitchen,
I cling to a notion that if I
can share this house,
then, I will find my voice and sing.

Then, maybe she will leave.

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