The Lotus Leaver

The woman sitting in the lotus blossom
is standing up
to voices chanting:
You will injure these petals
if you step out, sully, even
break these petals.
She is shaking loose the folds
from her narrow dress, re-
moving shoes, telling no
one in particular, My Feet are killing me:
lifting a foot,
rubbing a sole, the smooth
arch of its, smashing pollen with her heel,
to voices fearing: You’ll track particles
all over the clean floor.

The woman standing in the lotus blossom
knows that Buddha plucked this lily
from watery depths
to answer questions asked of him
he twirled its stem; had the woman
been standing in it then, she’d
have fallen out.
Thank God he wasn’t answering now; the
standing woman steps out
not mild in eye, not wooed
from out a bud;
this woman stepping out remembers—
wills to remember—her spreading toes
tangle in no roots as she looks back;
she fears no pillar of salt; she’s
through with salt; she’s through with pillars.

With a steady gaze she sees
the flat green leaf plate fill
with water behind her rising heel;
the water, with bead-bubbles like
a broken necklace, bursting in suc-
cession; the last one glints in her eye.
The dimpled surface recalls inner thigh,
warm teat nights in a patriach’s bed (
zen master; artist’s; some lord of the land)
from which she is walking away now.
Look: She sees her footprints in the pond,
on the firmer shore, by the sneaker counter
in the department store, where
she picks up frayed black hightops
at forty percent off.
The woman is not perfect. She
will wander more, embracing
the moon’s moods, clearing her throat
of lotus dust; she will not forget
the sickly sweet stamen that rose from the ovary,
and she from it; she will walk on.
Her daughter’s daughters will wear sneakers,
and have clear throats.