Stirring : A Literary Collection

Teresa White


Who could love you,
fat and oily
in your perfect calm?

Mother built a shrine --
your plump statue
on a little table
with her best embroidered runner.

Unlit candles, sentinels
by your side.  I didn't know
whether to laugh or cry
at the eight-fold path inked in calligraphy
above your shining head.

She went through religions
like a woman trying on clothes.
I wondered what you could
offer that no one else had.

Jesus was never her friend.
He lacked the exotic,
hadn't sat for days under a Bo-tree;
asked too much.

I remind her that you,
Siddhartha Gautama,
left your wife and child --
the only one she ever left was me.

I knew she had a reason
but now, as I come to her
for newlywed advice,
she stares at your altar;

says someday I'll know
what destruction
of desire means.

Teresa White
Date of Birth:3/27/47
Location:Spokane, Washington
Publications:Blue Moon Review, Conspire, Eclectica, Eye Dialect, La Petite Zine, Mefisto, Poet's Canvas, Savoy, Undressed, 3rd Muse, etc.
Awards:Nominated for Pushcart in 1999 by the Melic Review

Stirring : A Literary Collection

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