Are they there to cure you or ordain
you high priestess of a new cult, as they adorn
you in cobalt robes and a makeshift tiara
of fluffy periwinkle polyester? Blue Tara,
mother of mothers of all Buddhas, radiant
and fierce protector of secret mantras: if one iota
of her grit could greet you now, at your nadir,
ass on the pyre, strapped down, as hands more adroit,
behind the one-way mirror, target toxic radii
toward your tattoos. Om Tare—chant her into
being, silent lips form the words as whining laser triad
beams, and body burns in cell-to-cell riot.
Each end word is a partial anagram of the title, inspired by Terrance Hayes’s “A Gram of &s” form