Last night ma found a Buddha head. She made the sign of the cross then crossed her legs. She’s cross eyed and often setting grass on fire. She smokes weed and watches birds nest in queen palms. She squirrels her arms around the nest to nurture the blooming birds who squirrel in her arms. She is a bird nest, the nurturer of baby birdlings. She is a nest of thorns and twigs wrapped around birds who coo on cue and cuddle in her hairy arms. Fiery birds. Song birds. Birds of prey and praying birds call ma home. Ma says she is the Buddha of birds. The head of Buddha is the head of a (wo)man or god or god-(wo)man whose hands heal the wounds of the world with their ability to penetrate the night cloak. The no light cloak. The no idea cloak. Ma says she loves Buddha for his moderate philosophy and his inability to judge her ways and wishes as moot. Buddha, ma says, is a form of forgiveness and furriness. Mama, I say. That’s not Buddha. It’s a statue of the spiritual leader. I know, ma says, even better. He never gets tired of seeing. I never get tired of seeing, of sleeping in ma’s arms, of sweeping her sticky rice hair off my silver face as she dishes about the “enlightened one”. Ma turns on the light. Her voice is soft and light as a dollar. A path of moderation away from the extremes of self-indulgence and self-mortification, ma says Wikipedia says. That’s my life from here to then. Amen.