Hothouse

By Wynn Wilkinson

We’ll be lucky to hear, over cast iron sizzles 

A pillbug scampering earnestly in the grout 

Glinting, concealed halo, I stoop but can’t quite see. 

Silent Thatagāta, long beyond the wondering, 

Patient wanderer crossing icy marble seas, 

Middle way over crumbs, hair, skin, dust, 

Whose antennae peruse the driftwood of life. 

Please, please kneel with me. We are hosts. 

A guest has resolved to spend precious time here. 

Relocation can wait– let this humble secret keeper 

Feel the warmth reserved for the most tender prayer. 

And don’t you dare roll up that jaundiced old digest! 

First, butcher and scatter my libational corpse 

In segments and space as this Godhead has limbs.