In Effigy

He kept a small box filled with vials of oil—bergamot, lavender, jasmine.

My favorite was sandalwood.He told me it transformed desire.

He’d light candles and choosea combination of oils to burn.

Our naked bodies twistedin the heady fragrance.

In the city’s summer heat,we walked through San Francisco.

Bamboo shelves crowdedwith incense, crystals, and religious totems.

The woman working there shadowed us,rearranging everything we touched.

I bought a small wood-carved weeping Buddha.

I put it in the passenger seatand drove across the country.

I drove long dayswith heat glazing my body,

clothes sticking to my skin.

Through the night when the air was cooland whipped my face.

I littered the car with empty soda bottles,energy drinks, and gum wrappers.

I didn’t want to throw anything away,so I stuck my gum on the center of the dashboard.

At the end of the trip, I put the Buddhaon top of the mound of chewed gumand set fire.