What I'm Reading: Shibumi
Why I Chose to Be a Book Author--And Publisher

#FridayPoetry: The God in Me Salutes the God in Her

Namaste

 

The God in Me Salutes the God in Her

 

I’m training to be a shaman, the secretary said,

and it was the third time in three days I’d heard that word.

Shaman. Where we work, stock brokers 

have claimed the word rainmaker. 

 

She believes in fate and omens,

someone to watch over us, 

send us signs, make the pain 

mean something.

Her god tells her three times

to buy a house in Bremerton, across the Sound:

First in a dream, second through a friend, third in the paper. 

 

But she would have to take a ferry each day.

Her god doesn’t say anything

about the bankruptcy.

It is the mortgage broker

who tells her she can’t get a loan.

 

She fluffs auras for extra money, her own 

in need of polish, care from kind hands.

She gives me her bleeding pages

because she thinks I am a poet,

sent from her god to bandage wounds. 

I am to show her the path to poetry, to words

claimed in one fast breath

chewed in another.

 

No one ever watched over me, 

or I wouldn’t know her pain

so intimately. The gods inside us

were small as sesame seeds,

straining to listen 

for the word Namaste.

 

Or maybe they were big gods, after all—

an array of radio telescopes,

so large only a vast desert could host them.

 

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