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.
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
my spirits enter desolence—
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.