In a cup of orange mango juice
I poured myself in the break room
A small bug struggles for air
I can’t tell small bugs apart
Juice invaders, subspecies my cup
Anyway I do put my finger in there
And I let the small dude climb up
and I blow on the dummy gently until
he flies away.
The Buddhists, I have gathered, argue the bug’s point of view. Better to be fully present when drowning in a place you cannot conceive than to suffer from denial that you are drowning and you don’t know where you are. I’ll be honest, most days, I take great comfort in being
the master of the finger.
I know that small bugs have no consciousness
but I have an idea that this is the only way to experience divinity,
small and empty of thought.
I hope the bug was all wonder when
a miracle came from up somewhere
and saved it from
the place that smelled like heaven.