Amordazado

When my mouth is filled with pulp

surrendered by some unfortunate --

with hard bits like watermelon seeds,

and obstinate threads

that anchor nought to nought,

but pull against the tongue -- I give up chewing.

I think maybe

there are enzymes for the job.

The night thoughts begin to recede

and plain day resumes. Until enlightenment

I take refuge in the Buddha

the Dharma

and in the supreme assembly of the Sangha.

Oh, you who have prayed the longest

and thought the least,

walk back with me along this needled path:

take my hand, all figured like Caduceus,

straight tendons wound about with veins:

still competent to touch, though

maybe for a while.

If my mouth were my own

I might formulate a halting

request for forgiveness

of the ordinary kind:

I overstayed my welcome,

but how was I to know?

I go amordazado, mute,

over last year’s prickled gooseflesh to the lake;

I kneel and spit,

and the day’s slow gods wake to me at last.

Wash out his mouth

and take him to the house:

never mind a jury of his peers.