Bodhisattvas at the Beach in November

You can bring half that Gouda in your fridge if you want.

I’ll bring a persimmon, my cutting board, and knife.

But first golden chrysanthemums at the farmers market, cut at the stem 

   and wrapped in butcher paper.

What about this olive bread—Oh yes, get this olive bread. Cash only. 

   Do you have cash? All right, fine. I have cash.

On 580 toward San Francisco, we talk about the imbecile men

   who have rejected us lately.

Sister, sex is nothing to be embarrassed about.

Sister, the more  you tell me about him the less I like him.

Hold my hand as we descend this hill of sand and hidden rocks.

Bodhisattvas at the beach are each other’s bitches but not everybody’s,

   though we vow to return many lifetimes

until not one being is suffering, not even one blade of grass.

Let’s lay the mat somewhere—you pick a spot—and drink margaritas.

You change from hiking boots into sandals and bare feet.

   I still have on my socks. Bitches don’t get cold.

1 sliced apple, 4 dates, 2 mandarins, a few square coconut crackers—

   the kind that comes stale,

the kind my mom buys and leaves in my cupboard.

I  feel really bad for your mom. I mean ... I  feel really bad for my mom too!

A white dog walks up to us. A black dog sits next to our shoes.

   They go when their owners call them back.

Next time I want a basket to bring to the beach. What kind of basket?

   A wicker basket with a lid.

Oh and a separate basket for the wine bottle and wine glasses. 

   I want a basket for fruit. I want that too.

You and I with separate lighters burn incense sticks,

   our bodies huddling over the flames

to keep them going against November wind.

I’m done praying before you’re done praying.

Bitch, I’m envious that you’re still praying.

As you chant to yourself quietly, as the scent of sandalwood snakes toward us, 

   I lie down watching two tiny crustaceans from wet sand

skip onto the mat.

What is your purpose? Do you mean my purpose in life ? I’m a bodhisattva. 

   I am too. I know.

I’m not here to change anybody. Or tell anybody what’s best for them.

I know why the sun is out today. Because yesterday it rained.

Are you sure you want to wear boots? Instead of your sandals?

   I’m rolling up my pants to walk to the water.

Whatever we try to prevent from happening, will happen.

The tide rushes toward us. It knows we are here.

   Now my pants are wet up to my calves

and your boots are completely soaked,

   but the chrysanthemums are floating in the ocean.

Our small offering.

I love you. I love you too.

Let me put on my socks and sneakers to climb the steep hill with you,

   huffing and puffing, and not without laughter.

I’m getting better at accepting myself and others and the way things are.

Look at the sunset beyond the pink ice plants. Yes, I see.

Look at this spray-painted bench high off the ground. It has character.

   If you say so. Character.

The air smells like basil. Or mint. I told you this in the beginning

   when we first got here. It’s eucalyptus.

I can’t remember the last time I held someone’s hand. Bitch, it was me.

   In January. Before lockdown.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. It was many lifetimes ago.