|Keesor in Nepal|
the old man says from the front porch,
a couple hundred feet set-back
behind a copse of trees.
"Faithful. You are faithful."
(This is the neighbor that hides hind the trunks
to catch those whose speed-o-meters trip just a bit
too high - through the hood.)
I give him a thumbs up,
& keep moving -
He is referring to my walking, 1.7 miles every morning, to usher the sun up,
3.4 every evening, to tuck it in -- & fluff its pillows
Is this the extent of my belief?
One foot in front of the next, an ever forward movement,
a discipline, a habit which can fit on a bumper sticker -
21 days to each new atonement
Too many habits, I might as well be a nunnery,
& I wonder do they see - God
more for giving up the feeling of warmth beneath the weight
of your love-making.
In Nepal I did 5.7 miles each way from where I slept
to the school where I taught & then again
when I returned each evening.
This is less
Keesor. Naran. Prakash.
Ramesh. Rasu. Saman. Dahn. Srijan.
A month later and I have already forgotten most of the names
that rang like the bells of the Hindus each morning at 4:30 to wake up
their gods - themselves
I don't know, I can only go by what the streetvendor told me
as we stood listening for the sun to come over the mountain,
"Does your god believe in you?"
Are you more than what you do, in relation to
the story you tell, with lips less than 12 inches from a heart
that beats a wild rumpus for something else - beyond this...
tell me what love is
more or less
let me hear, the song of your steps, a whisper of breath-less
wonder in the iris, the expanding on contracting pupil, ever learning to adjust
to the light//the dark//the shadows in between
that look like trees
but are people - you just haven't had a chance
"I am faithful."
I laugh. I cry. I learn to love my enemy - myself,
that always seems to get in the way,
of the promise of belief.