Manumit (From Take The Long Way Home, Unsolicited Press) Poem by Martina Reisz Newberry

These days, my throat swells with embarrassment,
with regret and apology for my age, my skin,
the spots on the back of one hand.
Who I am tastes like a consecution of silent houses.

One Buddhist teacher says that flesh
is just another assumption.
I hope that means that, at some point,
everything except flesh will be liberated.
(Yes, I said "liberated, " one of
those clever words that means
D E A T H
but sounds a lot prettier.)

I'm not sure what it is about this fallen world
that we fight so desperately to stay on it
as it falls, to seek its approval as it plunges.
We cling to delusions and kind words
and superstitions like arm bars
to keep us upright and on planet.

Maybe the Buddhist teacher means that life is
about as important as a band-aid. Or, he might mean
that what I am now is too small to hold
all of what I have been.
My hope for the future is that
the same monster who eats at my
heaven will do the same for me in hell.