Somehow, Things Made Sense, My List Fell Away

Holiness in meditation upon his bed. Dead.
And orchids burst into bloom.
Cross-legged body warm,
emanating inexplicable scents of incense, jasmine.

There was this:
circumambulate the kudung,
the monastery.
Mantras, smoke offerings.
Beggars, butterlamps.

My world melted
into butter
coagulating into flower petals.
Statue faces shifting to sad.
Rainbows to slice your arm through.

He’s in a box, on a palanquin, on a truck, in Zangdopalri. Packed in salt.
Still.

After,
everything was lit. Generators whirred. Strings of colored lights dangled from the roofs of temples, stupas. Eyes pressed to windows staring in at the statue that looked sad the night he died.

Prayer wheels click.
Pop of insects on ceilings, floors, sudden rain.

Home,
there’s just ingredients.
Just photos and dreams. And imaginings.
Just flour and sugar and bread.
Blood whooshing from my arm.
Want to find figs and cardoons.
Burrs and Mandelbrot.

Closed up. And in.