From a schoolgirl’s diary
On Saturdays I went to Buddha’s house
where he sat in lotus position, eyes closed,
filling the circular room that was earth,
his conical head touching the arched sky.
Saturday was holiday for school. Papa would
be at his office. Mama was always absent;
she was in Dubai nursing an Arab’s girl.
On Saturdays my home was a silent cave
except for a drone rising from nowhere.
Buddha was sexy with broad shoulders,
a glowing body, slender waist, long folded legs.
His bony arms grew towards me like tendrils,
his fingers caressed me all over
but mostly my breasts and thighs
where they frisked like puppies.
Looking into me he vanished the others.
We would be alone. He sat me on his lap
and taught me the nine virtues in whispers
that heated me down to my toes.
On Saturday nights Papa moved in his sleep;
he threw his arms into air around women
whose names he purred between gasps.
Sometimes he let off a sob as though
he was complaining to his mother,
his schoolboy knees bleeding from a fall.
By midnight I was laid in my little womb
where soft tongues licked me to nirvana;
Buddha buried his face between my breasts
and fought the night shapes of solitude.