One who hears the cries of the world

must hear many things.
She called me in the museum
where she paused, embodied in wood,
gesso, mineral pigments.

A bodhisattva
foregoes Nirvana
until all beings are enlightened.

She waits for me.

I draw her name across my tongue
gentle and smooth in my mouth
like tacit conversations.

She sees me
ashamed of my attachments
and excuses,

asks what I will give
and what I will give up.

I hate to keep her waiting,
but my selfishness is so comfortable
and easy.

I take her home
so she can whisper
in my ear and remind me
of what I can hear when
I’m aware of the silence.