I meet Thich Nhat Hanh between the Terminator and Backdraft.
His robes blazing orange, moving like a mobile bouquet of poppies
with his tightly formed entourage.
When he enters into the que,
our eyes meet and my belly jumps
like a soft fish in water, scuttled,
provoking laughter in me
as if to a punchline I pretend to understand.
He laughs too at my small self as I wonder what
thoughts a monk would have about
a Terminator and the end of worlds,
future-altering thoughts and actions.
An hour later, together again, the line
between us diminishing. On the fake set, explosions
and quaking, tilting rooms as if to give away
around us, take us with them like hellfire. I’m
exhilarated and present, look for the orange
robe blending in a fake inferno.
This time when he gazes, I am a lightning rod,
jolted with energy from crown to feet,
unable to move, certain he sees right through me,
knows my past and future.
He laughs again re-grounding me
while an inner switch inside me flips on.
Rebecca Surmont lives in Minneapolis, MN enduring long winters. Her written work has been featured most recently in publications such as the new anthology, ICE Out Minnesota Writers Rise Up, The Mackinaw, RockPaperPoem, Last Leaves, The Orchards, Amethyst Review, Hare’s Paw, Steel Jackdaw, Eunoia Review, and Crowstep Poetry Journal.
