Lotus pollen wakes up in the heart’s center—
the bright flower is free from mud.
—Kambala
It’s not only the cream-petalled lotus
or tiny peach blossom
that invites me to wake,
not only the moon
that illuminates.
Grime. Thick grubs.
Fear that gnaws in the gut.
The blade that empties
me out. These are also
my teachers now.
No real difference
in the stars, the sludge,
the moon, the muck.
It’s all the same summons,
show up.
The gritty nature of this one works, carries right on through the poem with a kind of gritty grace, until that last line, which is just grace itself, polished a bit.
Love this part,
“No real difference
in the stars, the sludge,
the moon, the muck.
Though I do like the poem itself. I think that Kambala quote up front is essential to the piece.