Pema Rinpoche

Little, in Lhasa, you’d squat in dust, play with rocks, piling one atop another to form wobbly stupas. By your side, the red man only you saw.

You were ten the day the search party arrived. Three monks trying to find the reincarnation of a certain Khamtrul Rinpoche—the 9th incarnation--tests to see if you were he.

Three malas, three bowls, three vajras lined in a row. You chose—and your life transformed—left days encapsuled in mountains, sky. Soon, you and your parents on a bus towards India, a new home in Mindroling. The red man by your side.

In India, the Dalai Lama confirmed you were the one. You donned a shaved head, plum robes, no longer lived with your parents. But you had teachers, toys. When you misbehaved, your tutors prostrated, beat you.

Years later in Darjeeling, people wanted locks of hair to wear in amulets round their necks, your urine to drink.

But later, in Boulder,
you were another 23 year old immigrant washing dishes in a Chinese restaurant.

And even I,
let you rub my feet.