Why Bodhisattvas Stare at Walls

The old winter light like the desert.The memory of war in green places. The drynessin our mouths, the paralysis in our limbs, the way it feelsto let your skull be heavy against the floor, the risingand falling, the walk we should be takingto end the word should, the way it all wells upbetween our ears; the songs, the grief, the attemptsto keep the sun on our skin for a thousand years,to balance at the edge of a ruined hill,to stand under the planets when the night is so coldbreathe through our bellies in the darkand look up. To be full of horizon when the wind is grayand there is no grave to visit, to yell at the rain, to wake upanyway, be kissed anyway, chop onionsfold clothes, talk to angels, and sit stilleven though he is leaving, even though she is gone, even thoughwe are coughing and parched and the endingis unclear, even though the empty hours are coming --the empty hours are here. Her hair is in a silver box.The morning glory died. The cactus downstairshas small pink flowersthat bloom like stars in Novemberon broken arms covered in spikes.[author] [author_image timthumb='on']http://www.turningwheelmedia.org/wp-content/uploads/userphoto/4.thumbnail.jpg[/author_image] [author_info]Jacks McNamara is co-editor of Turning Wheel Media. She is an artist, activist, writer, and healer based out of Oakland, Ca.  Jacks  is a practitioner of Zen Buddhism  and a student of Generative Somatics.  You can find out more about her on her website, http://redwingedjacksbird.net [/author_info] [/author]