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BLACK-BELT BUDDHAS
 

Salamander slipper-less,
a microphone for mortal’s ax.
My Girl Scout oath was:
“Beat will’s head
against fate’s wall.
With the passion of forklifts
in mid-Monsoon,
I learned to stir
my bones through mud
like toothpicks chasing
hot d’oeuvre.
Walk on water.
Stand on hands.
Jog with fury.
Elbow art as if it were
a sugar cube that had
right’s power to sweeten tea.

Prayer was sunscreen lathered on
like algae on a lily pad.
Jabberwocky camouflage
for itching angst and mad argot.
Stubborn’s stance:
Black-belt buddhas.
Babbling brooks.
Rounded by steamed concentrate
applied to ways a limb can snap.
The geographic snail trail
of crippled binds like
circles of a wedding ring.
A hernia of wisdom’s horror
warmed by poems in guarded lace.