A whetstone, cold and grey. From my knuckles to my fingertips
I am rough and red. I have a sharkskin pad for bright green
wasabi and a yellow porcelain bowl filled with deep pink ginger
pickled in sweet rice vinegar. I know what is hidden, rooted
in these cupboards, in the shadows behind the flour and sugar,
I know my ingredients. I know what I have and what is missing.
I am full up on the wretched ignorance of samsara, overflowing
with desperate illusion and the blatant grieving half-life of desire.
I don't have satori. I have no locks on my aching heart, ground
under your heel like an inky stone. I have these days and nights.
I don't have you. Now I sharpen, I grind. I place the chips and
shards of my heart in the mortar bowl and bear down on the pestle,
bear down, endless. Are you hungry? Let me feed you.
