he came again, his Asian beard

in tow. We were on a healthy shore

and he sat cross-legged in the sand,

scratching delicately with a branch,

his slender head down. I crouched

and put it to him, “How do I block

the fear?” He kept scratching the sand

as if he hadn’t heard. I grew angry,

“How do I block the fear?!” He lifted

his head and shrugged,

branch waving above him,

“How does a tree

block the wind?”

With that, he

disappeared.

Without Notice

WITHOUT NOTICE

Faith is no longer a construct, but some vital tool as urgent as an oar in the ocean or a prayer in the modern world. The radiation therapist who cares but can’t look us in the eye glances at his watch and tells us that whole-head radiation could erase my memory and render my salivary glands useless, which would mean no more taste and incessant dryness, a ropiness in the mouth. My memory and my mouth are my instruments. They are fingers to a pianist, knees to a quarterback. So what am I to do? Life is breaking me down. When waiting in the anteroom for surgery, we were all lined up, four or five of us, and one by one the masked angels of this medical underworld were hooking us up. Next to me was a young black woman, an innocent, inexperienced being terrified of the needle that would make her sleep. So terrified, she moaned before the needle touched her skin. How I felt her moan. But this was her karma. The needle wouldn’t take, and they had to try four, five, six times until it settled in a vein. I lay there on my back, my last pouch of innocence torn. Who will suture that? I reached for her, but we were too far apart. She moaned again, and I thought: What on Earth is my karma? What do I fear and need to relinquish so deeply that I am here? I have always needed closure, have always planned the days minutely in advance, but as we struggle, it’s clear there will be no closure. There will never be closure again. It makes me wonder if there ever was closure or is it just a fabrication like time, a rope of mind which humans need to get by. Is lack of closure my needle which—because I fear it—must be thrust at me four, five, six times until it settles in my spirit’s vein? Is this odyssey the shakedown of all my time-tried ways? I have believed in the sea and now, without notice, I am forced to let go of the dory and push out, out, out . . .

The Waiting Room

THE WAITING ROOM