We meditate on the eve of my father’s death,

under the tutelage of Tetsuzen

under the aegis of syncretic faith,

under a cross in Campion Chapel.1112

Tetsuzen straightens my back with his palm

and stick, and my father sits up with me.

Tetsuzen angles my chin with his palm

and stick, my mother is looking with me.

But when he taps the singing bowl and chants

all my spirits are rendered meaningless–

instead your breath entrains with mine, our hands

enjoin in the same mudra, in silence:

there is no sacrament, no wine or bread,

and tonight even the koans are dead.