I sip my sea-dark wine and think of you
on that little scooter a world away.
Among ten thousand others on their way,
you zip along the busy city streets.
It seems so many instantly could die,
and yet one dares to step out from the curb,
clutching their life, white-knuckled, to their breast,
invoking some great Bodhisattva‘s name—
as if to step into a lava flow
or fierce and rapid-flowing mountain stream,
like treading on the awful tiger’s tail—
taking leave of one’s senses at the curb,
beside the palm trees and the noodle shops,
among the rows of scooters tightly parked.
And if some sainted buddha at last hears,
and if some deva takes them by the hand,
with joy they rise up on the other curb,
like one who passes through a moment’s death
and finds the world again, made strangely new,
still living, yet no longer who they were—
The moment passes and I’m home again.
I turn once more to read Rashid al-Din.
Michael C. Paul is a writer, illustrator, and historian living in Virginia. His work appears in The Amethyst Review and is forthcoming in The Sunlight Press and The Lyric. He is a four-time award winner in the 2026 Poetry Society of Virginia annual contest.
ManilaLitMag 