We collect the dirt
and dust with our bruised fingers
from atop the shrine.
An unused bookmark
lies across the bronze feet of
a patient statue.
We vacuum the dirt,
exploded across our floor,
while Buddha watches.
At the foot of the
coffee table lies the poor
decapitated
plant, shook of the dirt,
flung upside down, the empty
pot a yard away.
No, it does not stain
our hands, the blackness.
The dirt takes it all.
————
Sophia E. Terazawa is a poet and performance artist. A witness at the crossroads. Her work appears in As[I]Am, Kalyani Magazine, As/Us, and other journals. http://www.sophiaterazawa.com/
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