Wishing for Toys

It is well and good to diagnose the illness --
To pinpoint ice and glare, fear and grief,
As my particular torments.
You may devise sedation,
And call it a cure for blue and white,
But the vajra of sleeplessness remains.

Sure it is easy to be equaniminous
If you offer your mother, your friends, your children,
And yourself
On the altar of truth-
If you believe in sacrificial lambs
And sacrificial shepherds.

One may wear white for purity,
And ring pretty bells,
But if you are still afraid of the dark
You cannot call yourself a mother-
You've thrown out the baby with the bath water.

This may not be my ego, but it is my life,
And I have already been crucified thank you very much.
Let's not dwell on irrelevance.
What sears my brain is the endless anguish
Of friends and people who need too much,
More than they can ask and more than I can give,
More even than a life.

I have already lost too much-
Mahamudra,
The toy that pleases ghosts
And the Insomniacs of the Three Times,
It is nothing less
Than the Great Kaleidoscope of Abstraction,
A psychedelic comfort and an innocent peace.

- Sally Clay
May 21, 1989

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