Chaulmoogra Mantra

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“A man, though naked, may be in rags.”
— Ambrose Bierce

We smile through the cerements of flesh,
and laugh — though mirth can make the belly heave
and calve the glaciers of a gnarly brow.
Though naked, we’re in rags: it matters not.

Anointing with a liniment of fresh
chaulmoogra, the nurses can’t believe
that humor lives in wrecks, and wonder how
the spirit, sorely tested, shatters not.

We’re in stitches, but the tissues never mesh,
chaulmoogra cannot cure what eyes perceive:
we’re monsters happy in the here and now.
Though naked, we’re in rags: it matters not.

A change must come before the soul can flourish.
Chaulmoogra’s for the shallow, let them grieve
for autumn leaves that wither from the bough.
We’re in rags, but we’re not the tattered lot.

Chaulmoogra Mantra originally appeared in Fugue #10 (Fall/Winter 1994)

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