Photograph of Mama Carving

The Buddha looks up at her,

his back to the camera. His robe

looks like waves passing through the wood

against the grain. The eye is drawn

to the bottom of a can of some kind—

probably linseed oil she would rub

into the wood. Next to it, nearly hidden

in shadow is a small hammer wood carvers

use to tap the chisel. I’m in the picture,

crouched beside her but mostly out of

sight like a belief system. Behind us—

the raised bark of the willow tree.

She sits cross legged on a plastic tarp,

long hair in braids I rarely saw undone.

She’s focused on her hands, cleaning

a chisel perhaps. She ignores the camera

the way a workman doing his job in public

goes about his work with that studied

aloofness that says: this is not a show,

but I’ll let you watch anyway.

The Buddha looks up at her.

The beloved of hearts will do this—

see beyond the shadows. He’s laughing

at something the camera can’t see.