Where the Buddha Lives in My House
by Libby Langsner
In the seventh grade, my mother told me that all life is
suffering. The next year in my religious survey course
I was told the Buddha had said the same. For quite some time
I thought my mother was the Buddha,
or at least knew the guy.
I think he blossoms when she cannot bring herself to sleep.
I wonder if she sees him sitting in the Rosenthal coffee cups
that my dad loves while she winces and holds them to the light.
There is a fly peeking out of an opened jar of rose-petal jam,
does he know?
Libby Langsner (she/hers): lover of the moon and all her phases. Still trying to figure out how to be a poet and what that *really* means. Obsessed with art and generational trauma and delineating all linear things. Too much of New Yorker to keep a steady boyfriend and proud of it.