Having lived
as a monk
myself: I recognize us.

Those long decades
of soundless
trekking through
the squealing
forests.

Those pre-dawn
meditations
whose
insights
ramble on
for years.

The young ones
left
behind us
abject:
their well-aimed
curses
hurled
with venom
at our
departing
enlightenment-
seduced
necks.

Wake up!

The Buddhas
you set
before yourselves
polished and
carved
with their painted eyes
and carmine
lips
not to mention
their
well-kissed
feet
resemble more
and more

the women
& children
you left
behind.

Enough!

Stay home
if you
possibly
can.

A few monks
need
a
cuddle
buddy.

That warm leg
near
dawn
flung carelessly
over
an even
warmer
thigh.

The smell
of breath
not just
its movement;
a child’s
trusting hug
& earthy sweat:
Carved
wood
or
stone
no matter its
well-kissed
perfection
or what beloved
teacher
it
represents

in
the midnight
hour

reminds us
mostly
of a
wound

we are not
wise
enough
to forget.