Buddha -- The Return

I am exchanging my life,
I say to Buddha.
We have bumped into each other
as we wait on the
return line.

Buddha opens his crinkled bag
to show a red robe.
Wrong shade
and the threads are unraveling,
he says to me.

I understand this,
as it is how I would
describe my life:
peppered and ashen,
with missing pieces.
I remember my birth:
half of a whole
and whole of a half.
my mother’s jagged scar
tearing the seams of a
not-so-hidden war.

I should have returned
when I was born.

I feel awkward in this explanation--
not wanting Buddha to think
I am a snob and only like
shiny new things.

As the line moves up,
we stare
at the large woman
returning a flowered scarf.

I want to say something to him.
To ask him
if I return my suffering
will I know something more.

But it’s too late—
Buddha’s number has been called
and he slowly approaches
counter number three.

-- Nancy Marks

Lost

This is no fairy tale.
The crusted crumbs
cast on sodden umber moss
are now gone
and I feel my way
through blanketing darkness
and weighted slumber.

Against grooved lichened bark
my hands scrape
leaving trace
as I pass under
then over
felled elm and maple.

Earlier, I placed seeds
of yellow maize in rows
and waited.

The storm came
as fast as it left.
A tempest,
first welcomed
then feared
for its
hard rain.

-- Nancy Marks