Varieties of God

Varieties of God

Like bungee jumping and returning
To base camp. The time between
Putting on my pants and noticing
My zipper's down, tallying who
Might've seen and not said anything.
Like wearing a scarf, tied in the European style,
Even when the sun's out—I've never done that,
But I feel like someone who does.

Has meditation ever been described this way?
There's a dandyish, fey quality to me when I meditate.
I walk around with the taste of a copper penny
In my mouth, my shirt tag sticking out,
Scratching the back of my neck till
One day, over-caffeinated,
I pull off my shirt, tear off the tag,
And stare at laundry symbols in my hand,

Made in Cambodia, jagged, threaded all-caps that mock
My consideration of garment workers across the world,
Half a million women sewing t-shirts
For fifty cents an hour in the heat,
Too tired to meditate or walk to temple
To see so many child monks—from afar, they look
Like cheese curds, straight backs draped in orange robes,
High-tailing across stone the color of their bald heads

On Vesak Day, the festival commemorating Lord
Buddha's birth, enlightenment, and passing into nirvana,
Sandals slapping under sweeping persimmon togas,
Tagless and breezy, bunched up under their pits,
Collecting and sorting the hoard of donations
Of food and clothes,
Grinning and beaming
In the faces and varieties of their god.