Of When

The Holy man chooses me.

He: a knower of life — a knower of lives.

Me: a traveller, a wanderer, a seeker. An asker.

‘Sit,’ he says. ‘No speak,’ he says. He sees into my heart. His eyes are closed.

He tells me: not of now, not of then… but of when.

‘Not brown, not sick, not man… but woman,’ he says. ‘Sad not happy, happy not sad. Not free… not yet.’

‘Take my hand,’ he says. ‘Bathe with me.’

The fetid water: brown, and thick with death and waste.

His hand: brown and dry, and course with life.

His nails: long and yellow and gnarly.

His touch: of love.