aaronwrixon.com

“i’m a bad buddhist,”
you said. “when enlightenment
seems so far away,
it’s harder to think of eight
and easier one.”
“love calls you by your name” played
on the stereo
in the corner of the room.
large flakes of snow fell
past the balcony outside,
each one different,
each a zen signifier,
like the haiku books,
the cohen in the corner,
and the sad, dusty
altar in the hall alcove.
“hon, you’re not a bad buddhist,”
i said, jealously
eyeing the roach smoldering
between your fingers.
“you’re not a buddhist at all.”
as if i’d slapped you,
the tears welled hot in your eyes,
but before you cried
i asked, “isn’t that what it’s
all about, this shit —
always striving, yet never
attaining the goal?”
you started, “i thought you meant…”
and i cut you off.
“maybe, but i’m drunk and high
and my tongue is a
traitor bent on my downfall.”
so i crawled to you,
splayed, languid, on the sofa,
and i hooked my thumbs
in the hips of your panties,
slowly slid them off,
and kissed an apology.
“wild horses” came on, and
“that’s more like it,” i said. “now
fuck me, you bad buddhist, you.”