Bruises above her eyes
And beneath her chest
Even though the only boxing match she’d ever participated in
Was a screening of Rocky.
Friends told her she had to go
Before it was too late;
All she could manage to say in reply
Was “But he loves the Dalai Lama.”
Sure enough, his bookshelf was full
Of guidebooks for enlightenment
And mystical paths to peace
Written by saints and saint-adjacents.
Yet his head was full of screw-yous
And excuses for excuses:
“I lashed out because I was drunk
Which was only because I was depressed.”
Spoiler alert:
People don’t mature,
They’ll exclude you from the playground
No matter how long it’s been since they last touched a slide.
Nevertheless, she waited to be let in
As she tip-toed in and out of doctor’s offices,
Later insisting at his half-empty funeral:
“But he loved the Dalai Lama.”
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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