Bowl
of Flaming Oil
A Chinese sage once said, “Truth
is ‘neither this nor that.
It is a bowl of flaming oil and a
dog: Entranced, vexed, immobilized by
it
it
This is how truth burns”
Her bones are remodeled, she
creates like a god
Eats in the convent with clowns
and a snake. Sleeps in jail with silk sheets in the
nude
nude
Bathes in a river of crocodile
teeth
She vanishes with the failing
light
Sheds her skin in a cave on the
hill, uttering questions for the
sure
sure
Scratching in darkness in the
dirt
Then sunrise squints into her yawning
eyes
A quiver, then a feeling: It is
happening! Like a padlocked piano lurching into the
day
day
To cast light on its keys