1. Sansei Bride

Once I was married to a Buddhist.
I was raised Protestant, but we didn't
seem so different—our parents made us
go to Sunday School, where we sang
from hymnals bound in leather—
"Jesus Loves Me This I Know"
in tune with "Buddha Loves Me,"
both to organ accompaniment.

On a hot August afternoon
I walked down the temple aisle
not knowing anything about his religion
other than the ornate gold altar,
an unfamiliarly sweet scent
of incense, and some vague Buddhist
notions about life being transitory
and human suffering, eternal.

Back in 1970 that message felt dismal
and besides, I'd replaced
church with radical politics,
me in my $75-sales-rack
wedding gown from Robinson's,
my legs shaking so hard
I needed a tranquilizer
to get through the wedding march.

2. The Enemy

We argued about everything,
including the war—my husband's unlucky
draft number, his unwillingness to protest
on moral or even Buddhist grounds,
his joining the Army reserves.
If it were today, he'd be in Iraq.
But in 1971 we were fighting Vietnam
and this was his way to stay home.

Meanwhile I became a student
of war—from Marx to Malcolm X,
instilled to worship
the idea that one side
is always absolutely right.
But just like in my old Sunday School,
I couldn't ask questions,
held my poems in secret.

3. Unlikely Insurgents

I divorced my Buddhist husband
but didn't expect
all the little bodhisattvas
who'd keep tapping me
on the shoulder,
tendering tea,
laughter, words
bursting all boundaries.

And I found myself
in a temple of poets—where
Buddha resides comfortably
with Rumi, Gandhi, Neruda,
and Guan Yin, goddess of mercy—
revolution possible
even in the simplest
act of writing.