PORCINE BUDDHA

PORCINE BUDDHA

by Logan Garner

(Plan B Press, 2023)

The Buddha would never have body-checked a man,

thrown his weight around like that.

Not that there was much to throw.

That slight, trim fellow was not one for indulgence.

His girth, heft, that bowl full of jelly

were assigned to his image later on, you see.

Signs of prosperity and health. 

As attractants to the movement, perhaps.

But enough about him.

My Buddha?

Mine is fat. 

He’s got the heft and he tossed it once

into a dog that stepped too close.

He relishes food and flavor with abandon,  

especially sweets: 

gets giddy over ripe fruit. 

His is a squat square frame 

over powerful legs juxtaposed with that

wisped rope of a tail 

all bristling with coarse hair.

What a body.

And a face to match:

Two half-moon teeth lean and reach

right up around and toward his cheeks, 

a huge bony smile. 

Or they did. Before his wailing, tragic trim. 

My Buddha.

Mice and birds and the neighborhood cat

call on him daily for wordless quality time. 

New straw bedding and sunshine are tonics. 

But he’s not all love and acceptance. 

He LOATHES snow, sleet, hail and wind-driven rain.

No matter what you try and say or do

in the winter time, he will have neither 

gratitude, nor appreciation, 

no guru’s patience for that cold, 

a problem which he solves with 

long buried retreats into sleep. 

My Buddha is porcine, after all, 

and as grumpy and greedy

as his kind may seem

to the uninitiated, he has in fact

taught me more than most

about the moment 

and being here

now.

And the perfection of animal crackers.

And while his name isn’t Buddha

(but neither was Buddha’s),

this one has earned the title, too, I think.

Not that he cares.