The only picture of Ramakrishna I’ve ever seen
shows a saint skinny as a rail
legs fine as stems, crossed 
upon a mat, and thin arms 
falling like mist upon his thighs

I am moved by that

I am still and always a boy from Argentina
who sipped the wine of his father’s profound soul
and sucked eagerly the milk of his mother’s godly determination


I could have been a body violated and alone, 
but I was not 
and I am profoundly grateful for that

I aspire to nothing less 
than the courage of a hummingbird

flying in place
a hero to flowers