In a revered Tibetan tradition,
I read aloud to my father,
the dead are borne to mountains
and the bodies offered to vultures.I show him the photographs
of a monk raising an ax,
a corpse chopped into pieces,
a skull crushed with a large rock.As one we contemplate the birds,
the charnel ground, the bone dust
thick as smoke flying in the wind.
Our dark meditation comforts us.I ask if he’d like me to carry him—
like a bundle of sticks on my back—
up a mountain road to a high meadow
and feed him to the tireless vultures."Yes," he says, raising a crooked finger,
"and remember to wield the ax with love."
I read aloud to my father,
the dead are borne to mountains
and the bodies offered to vultures.I show him the photographs
of a monk raising an ax,
a corpse chopped into pieces,
a skull crushed with a large rock.As one we contemplate the birds,
the charnel ground, the bone dust
thick as smoke flying in the wind.
Our dark meditation comforts us.I ask if he’d like me to carry him—
like a bundle of sticks on my back—
up a mountain road to a high meadow
and feed him to the tireless vultures."Yes," he says, raising a crooked finger,
"and remember to wield the ax with love."
