FOR NECHUNG, IN TIBET

by Ian Haight

 

 

At seventeen, your lifeless stomach
swollen, the cotton bound cord
around the still babe
hanging      

              from your vagina—
the lama carved the Buddha
sign in your back.
A liberation

                     he said. When
your mother died, they cut
and fed her to the birds
on that peak

                     near the lake
at Earth’s limits. Drunk
from barley wine, your father
cast his shadow

                          on your bed. 
The lone loved Chinese
watchman on the sheep-eaten
hillside

             made a short-lived
warmth for you. The two teen
brothers, who’d waited
wanting

              for a woman, became
your husbands. They cut
and fed you to the birds
on that peak

                     near the lake
at Earth’s limits.

 

 

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