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.