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A poem is presented.
She was not the pretty one-
her mouth was shaped too much
like a man's, but she could feel
in the steady slaps of a faucet drip
the slow pulse of the universe
at the heel of her palms.
She learned to eat from her mother's breast
like any other child. She learned to walk
over cool morning ground the same
as the hot afternoon coals.
She began noticing the sun
rose in the east. The grass was full
of sharp green blades that pointed
at the sky resting on her shoulders.
She learned to pray from the insects
that buzzed continuously
through each moment passed.
She counted her breaths and waited.
The restless monkey breathes 32 times a minute.
The giant tortoise 4 times a minute.
She did not want to live three hundred
years, so she spoke once or twice
to bring others into her stillness.
Ananda Moyi Ma does not refer to herself as "I"
She uses humble circumlocutions
like "this body" or "this little girl" or "your daughter"
Nor does she refer to anyone as her "disciple. "
They say many things about how
this woman with wide cheekbones
and low brows
can pull life from her body
like a wet wax cord, how
she does not need
to eat
to live.
She meditates
until the sunlight pushing
through the rain
becomes heavy folds of roti
dipped in dal.
Natasha M. Marin
NATASHA M. MARIN, "by day a corporate drone, by night an aspiring writer," has published in Borderlands, International Poetry Review, English Journal, Hawaii Pacific Review, and Karamu. Originally from Trinidad and Canada, she currently lives in Austin, Texas.
Copyright Pittsburg State University, Department of History Autumn 2005