SHE IS
by Tsering Wangmo Dhompa
Her voice is a roundness. On full moon days, she talks about
renouncing meat but the butcher has his routine. And blood.
M’s wisdom. Still reliable.
There are sounds we cannot hear but understand in motion.
Slicing of air with hips. Crushing grass, saying these are my feet.
I want my feet in my shadow. Suffice to meet desires halfway.
Quiet. We say her chakras are in place.
When the thermos shatters, she knows the direction of its spill.
She knows how to lead and follow. Know her from this.
Sounds we cannot hear. The wind blows and we say it is cool.
Night slips under the door. We are tucked into bed and kissed
a fleeting one. Through the curtains, her voice loosens like thread
from an old blanket, row upon row. We watch her teeeth in the
dark and read her words. She speaks in perfect oder, facing where
the breeze can tug it towards canals stretching for sound.
Her faith abides by the cycle of the moon. See how perfect she is.
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