Mrs. The Buddha

Siddhartha left . . .

in autumn when the leaves crackled gold

and the evenings were cool blue

or was it the flat red of summer.

He left her to her own devices

when the babies were asleep

and there was still a moist sweat

on her thighs, between her breasts

as she lowered the netting of her bed.

While he was following his breath

she was following the breath of babies

the food they took, the sleep they forgot

the fevers, the shit, the warm kisses

babbling, morning baths, new teeth.

When The Buddha returned . . .

Mrs. The Buddha bowed to him

smiling from the golden throat

of a lotus blossom.

∞