Holy Relics

“Mail within two weeks after the death of deceased.”
—Emily Post’s Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage.

Who came up with this rule?
Not someone who just left
their mother’s body four feet
deep in the dark, hard ground
of winter. (But that’s what she
would want, of course.
She was proper old school.)

I’ll handwrite them myself,
Like she taught.

        Dear (fill in first name),
                 I am blank, frozen in writing motion.
        Thank you for taking the time to attend my mother’s funeral.
                 I am ripped out of time.
        Our family was so thankful for (list: food/flowers/donation)
                 I am numb and cannot eat. My spine will not let go, it shakes
                 all day and night long. Do you know how long loss lasts?
        Best, Ann’s daughter
                 I am never going to be called a daughter again.

Buttering Toast, Mid-Morning Naps Required

I don’t look in the mirror anymore, Win. It’s not relevant,
my teacher said. An old lady now. Easily worn down.

Her cabin and cushion on the mountain, gone. Her monastery,
a care facility somewhere in California where white grapes form.

She lives on the simple. All the stuff, all the boxes marked ‘save to sort later,’ gone. No use for calendars, clothes, or new close friends.

How long has it been, Win? I don't remember.
I say ‘Not long.’ I don't have the heart to say ‘yesterday.’

We laugh out loud together, a pair of old slippers finding their lost other half
under the couch. We slide in together. Time dissolves. Not even a blip,
she is back, my teacher, her voice a transmission. She lives on moments,
sun dazzling on the edge of ocean time. On the cusp of awake, alive.
Rising. Falling. Rising. Falling, I-could-be-dead-in-the-next-moment.
We laugh some more, recite poems, and weep.

Without missing a beat she says, Win, how long has it been?
I say ‘Not long.’

Under Heart-Shaped Leaves

The Buddha gave

84,000 teachings to one

hundred enlightened monks.

Inscribed, thirty decades

after memorized time.

The Buddha understood the nature

of the mind: some needed a scholarly

labyrinth to unwind; others simply

a word to ride on the breath. So

I say to you: follow what is true,

what is orchid-soft to you. Not that I

am against scrubbing, scrutinizing

the mind, this is noble and wise (sometimes).

But first take a good seat. Reside

with a posture of dignity, with ease

on your insides. Root your pelvis

into worm rich soil. Let your heart be

steeped. Invite your eyes to call off

the search. In the fields of space

between each letter, each word,

lay down. This is how to be a light.

This is how to bloom in the compost.

This is what I know to be true: Life

is made of roadkill and rubble.

But then, there are the 17-year cicadas,

nestled in the dark humus, newly emerged,

blanketing cars and trees and concrete

Garden Buddhas, singing their siren, sacred.

Holy Relics

“Mail within two weeks after the death of deceased.”—Emily Post’s Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage.

Buttering Toast, Mid-Morning Naps Required

Under Heart-Shaped Leaves

Grow loving kindness in simple, everyday ways

“Mail within two weeks after the death of deceased.”
—Emily Post’s Etiquette: The Blue Book of Social Usage.