A Few Monks Need a Cuddle Buddy

©2009 by Alice Walker

Having lived
As a monk
Myself: I recognize us.

Those long decades
Of soundless
Trekking through
The squealing
Forests.

Those pre-dawn
Meditations
Whose
Insights
Ramble on
For years.

The young ones
Left
Behind us
abject:
Their well aimed
Curses
Hurled
With venom
At our
Departing
Enlightenment
Seduced
Necks.

Wake up!

The Buddhas
You set
Before yourselves
Polished and
carved
With their painted eyes
And carmine
Lips
Not to mention
Their
Well kissed
Feet
Resemble more
And more

The women
& children
You left
Behind.

Enough!

Stay home
If you
Possibly
Can.

A few monks
Need
A
Cuddle
Buddy.

That warm leg
Near
dawn
Flung carelessly
Over
An even
Warmer
Thigh.

The smell
Of breath
Not just
Its movement;
A child’s
Trusting hug
& earthy sweat:

Carved
Wood
Or
Stone
No matter its
Well kissed
Perfection
Or what beloved
Teacher
It
Represents

In
The midnight
hour

Reminds us
Mostly
Of a
Wound

We are not
wise
Enough
To forget.

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