My Santiago

A monk in Guangzhou

Subterranean travellers, we were; Disgorging from the underworld, To greet the lit sky, Where two monks - One sitting passive, In front of his begging bowl The other eating glass – Caught our senses! I strayed, Bobbing for vantage points, fascinated by the glass eater, Lean and bald of head, Breathing in deep gulps of air, Pacing, fretting, flexing!

Ready to ignore pain, He shatters bottles on his lean abdomen; Hard as teak, Heaving heavy, And places the broken shards

Dense and menacing, On bare pavement!

He places both calloused palms on the glass And heaves his body into the air, Glass ripping yielding flesh, But no!

He comes back upright, No blood-soaked hands.

To audible gasps, He paces, frets and flexes, Then swallow handfuls -of glass! Chewing meditatively, Earnestly, thoughtfully!

The man, A mix of entertainer and shaman, Has me now in his thrall; I move away reluctant, And casting one last look, I see him, glass eater, With disappointment, Furtively wipe shards From the corner of his mouth; Now reduced to mortal status