Bulletin from a Militant Refugee

Without genuflection, I lay down my life
For whatever it is that remains
When everything else is explained away:
My only Refuge.

I prostrate to Karma Tharchin,
Incomparable teacher and steadfast mother
Of utter integrity.

Homage to Chögyam Trungpa,
Who sinned so that others might care
And never turned away or faltered in his heart.

I call again upon the group of men,
The cloud of patriarches who told me the truth
On at least three occasions,
Terrifying me, comforting me, and directing me,
Chastising me with thunder,
Healing me with silence,
And lifting me with resolution.
Please come here and sit down.

The company of saints cannot be manipulated,
Even by those who package voices for gain or profit.
But the Buddhas in space only explain the truth,
And even Moses points to stone.

Milarepa smiles and tiptoes out of heaven by the back door.
He is a homeless man standing at a storefront window,
Who borrows his label from a can of soup, Del Monte,
And calls himself Dimond, for he is of the world,
Another drunk Apache drying out in a mental hospital;
It is his way of saving militant refugees
Whose names are Legion.*

I prostrate to all of these saints,
If prostrate I must. Certainly I am listening.
But still I cannot trust that heaven shelters earth.
Please show me, a mother.

- Sally Clay
April 2, 1989

* Luke 8:30

Back to Poems