Now that you mention it
it falls on me unbidden,
unasked for it just exists
like the hum of the refrigerator
the air of the kitchen fragrant
with bread baking or dough rising.
It comes from god,
undeserved I get it by believing
I’ll get it, the conundrum
of paradox or faith,
for I already have it
even if I don’t ask but just
sit zazen, kneel in supplication
waiting for it to descend on me.
As present as the sunshine in the desert
when I concentrate
on goodness or evil it is there.
The butchers of Srebreniça have it
the child molesters and rapists have it.
No law can be obeyed so I’ll get more than you,
no good work I do, no notch in my belt
no higher degree, no hierarchical church
no donation to Amnesty International
United Way Salvation Army Red Cross
no pilgrimage to help Mother Theresa
in the slums of Calcutta or Bombay
no assisted suicide or careless abortion
can give me more or less of it than you have.
Now that you speak of it I get it
graciously or gracelessly,
receiving it in a host of symbols
it sleeps with the slave trader
who wrote the amazing pentatonic song,
it wakes with the ghost rattling in the hallway
rising resonating from deepest depths of dreams.
If you don’t get it this time
you can be reincarnate: born again.
© Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved.