Ruthless Inquisitor,
asker of relentless, searching, hostile questions:
Pester us to our limit.
Reduce us to an exasperated hush.
Sneak up while we play
at meditation’s dizzy cliff edge.
Say “boo!”
so we can soar
into a questionless sky.
What
but this blessed freefall
could deliver us
from the manageable suffering
we call happiness?
What
but these whirling willies
could make hugable
the crass, political calculation
that stains the smile
of even the most heartfelt and sincere?
Oh Ruthless Inquisitor,
this time-bound sense of self
is such a measly offering
considering
what you gave us
in silence, at birth,
before we had any questions:
The bliss that doesn’t care
if it’s blissful
or not
