Female Bodhisattva: A Poem

When you die, you will look back
upon the motley, hurley-burley carnival
with a tiny pentagram of wry compassion
in your open, trusting eye

from your orbit on the sunside,
in the mystery.

Weary of games, faces, chimerae, numbers & tests,
you may groan inaudibly, deciding
how to return, where to reenter,
as old airs rise and fall in memory.

The motive no longer logos, but an
almost-caught salt smell in nostrils,
an inner compulsion, a launch into the somatic—

Take peace. You persist.

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