(Poem for Myself Reading Pema Chodron in a Parallel Universe)
She’s been living a linear equation,
the product, the sum of what came before,
the difference, in this place where she
was figured in, where she ended up.
The iron in our blood was formed in stars,
billions of years ago, trillions of miles away.
Soft shuffle of newspapers in the park,
rhythmic squeaks from a swinging pair of
lovers under a thinning canopy
of trees. One-legged sparrow hopping
across the bus stop where church-light limns
a stained-glass lamb held in robed arms.
And when we die, the four elements dissolve
one by one, each into the other, and finally
just dissolve into space.
What if there is no absolute Truth,
only infinite possibilities
happening all at once so you’re always
left feeling you need to be somewhere
other than where you are?
Something inside her begins to
stir. She can feel her limbs twinge.
The process of generation occurs
in this order: air, fire, water and earth.
What if we are just quanta of matter colliding,
then breaking apart?
She hates to run because her legs never move
at the speed of her heart.
