The Buddha's Final Night

After eating the spoilt pork and consoling the man
who brought the poor pig, he lay down to die.
Or it may have been truffles or mushrooms that he ate,
the word pig's soft food no longer translatable.

He must have been weary of preaching the dharma
to whores, kings, and thieves.  How often would he hear
the grumblings from monks upset at women among them?
Perhaps next time he would keep quiet about the miracle 
under the fig tree, or teach only the ruminant deer.

The ground beneath the mango trees was soft.
Small pink flowers shook loose from their clusters
and fell upon his curled topknot, the long lobes of his ears. 
The pain pricked his stomach like bamboo sticks.

He crossed the river to a grove of sala trees, lay down
in lion's pose, broad head pressed to his right hand.  
If he looked away from the weeping faces, up through
leaves of the trees, he could see a sky blue as turquoise. 
Day wobbled on its wheel toward night.

The black opening of his eyes would soon widen.
He told his followers to become their own lamps.
He blew out the flame of this life and burned 
into the heavens.  Earth shuddered and the night sky 
filled with the mournful face of the moon.

 

© Jan Lee Ande