Bad Buddhist

Genre

Poetry

Finish

2nd place

Student

Alisha McMillan

Award

Robert and Marcy Branski Poetry Scholarship

School

Interlochen Arts Academy

Year

Senior

[all the time I pray to Buddha]

After Rebecca Hazelton

a fly lands in the room and prays with me

lending his knees to the flowers. to the nappako he

leaves his prayers. my hands are patterned with

the scorned carpet. I pray for more than

harboring the sweat on my face. I asked Buddha to

enter my body, to lift the limbs I am too tired

to carry. I pray, too, for something to crave. something

internal that I can lose. I want to lose something

microscopic and feel its absence in my sleep. I

eat my alms and rice, eat prayers and

I leave my feet dirted and bloodied, I

pray for something better. to be distasteful,

regretful. I pray for balance, pray for

anger pray to the flies and the

youth, too, I pray for money,

too, I pray to be something great. I hold

onto the statue, gold and beautiful

Buddha, why do you hate me? I cannot

understand the truths. deities hate me.

deities who remember me as You. dangered,

damaged. the fly lands on my shoulder, falls to my

hand. I pushed him into the ground. squashed and

ashamed.

Dukkha:the Pain of Suffering

The first noble truth

we were sick

together I was mad

in the heart and You

loved the feeling of being

sickly You swaddled yourself in

“get well soon” cards and ate

thickened water like candy I loved

it too before I knew

that we would not get better

veins bruise and turn

into lakes against your skin

even You cannot return from this

I am told to lie to the ones I love like

they are stupid or unknowing You

are still conscious and You know

that I am afraid I know

not to cry but am torn between healing

and writing I pick apart

words in an attempt of absolution

my words that look at You

Your head against the pillows

mouth agape and tasting soured

air that You spit it out like

rotten fruit.

Buddha leaves me

at the gate, feet

covered in calluses, dirt

toes dig into clay, the clay

my mother worked

so hard to get

the Plumeria’s petals

drift, leaves

follow, I walk

towards a home

that doesn’t

recognize me

I recognize

only the stones

the kitchen’s outline

where I learned to gut fish

chew on sugarcane

I didn’t

go back

for the longest time

scared I would

not know what

to do with whatever

Remained

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