Marianne Murphy Zarzana: "The News in Southwest Minnesota"

A Buddhist monk, exiled from Thailand, broadsided the car  

of a local woman, age 20. She was pronounced dead at the scene.

He survives with serious injuries. — Marshall Independent, Summer 2000

Days after I’ve read the front page, my mind returns to the scene
of the accident. A familiar crossroads framed by early summer cornfields.

Late afternoon, the sun hovering high, so close to summer solstice.
Didn’t the monk see the oversize red stop sign, hear and feel
the vibration of tires passing over rumble strips etched into the road?

But no trace of skid marks. No time for either driver to brake before impact.
Some accidents are like that. Blind siding us no matter how familiar the route,
how aware, awake we are, or how faithfully we’ve sat in daily meditation.

And haven’t I have been all of these?
The victim, following the rules of the road, still unsafe, vulnerable.
The intersection, unconsciously aiding and abetting fatal collisions.
And the monk, missing signs, warnings, speeding on to that place
where I do harm accidentally.

"The News in Southwest Minnesota" by Marianne Murphy Zarzana, from Farming Words: A Harvest of Literature at a Prairie College. Edited by Bill Holm and David Pichaske. © Southwest Minnesota State University, 2007. Presented here by poet submission.

Art credit: "Closeup of Rusty Old Stop Sign," photograph by © Ron Chapple (originally color).

Marianne Murphy Zarzana: "Savasana: Corpse Pose"

On the bonsai-green carpet, you stretch
your frame out flat upon a blue yoga mat

and parallel, I lie down upon a purple one,
both of us becoming still, our bodies sinking

further into the floor with each slow, steady
breath. It’s night, and together we’re letting go.

Our old black lab mix, Mollie, wanders in, licks
your open palm, sniffs my hair, snuffles, settles

by my head with labored breath. Soon, I know,
we’ll lose her. Someday, each other. This is

practice. We’re learning to dissolve, surrender
to earth, release thighs, hips, neck, skull, all

the bones, pay attention only to breath—let it
become a ribbon, the texture of fine silk.

"Savasana: Corpse Pose" by Marianne Murphy Zarzana. © Marianne Murphy Zarzana.

Photography credit: "Detail from `Savasana—The Release,'" oil on linen, by Amy Funderburk © 2008-2011.

Marianne Murphy Zarzana: "Saying Our Names"

Notice how just one syllable—

say Jack—can expand and become

the world, round and whole,

when it is a child’s name

being formed by a mother’s mouth.

I’ve overheard women in stores and airports,

restaurants and trains, sprinkling their talk

with the name of a brand new baby or

a grown child, say Morgen or Nora,

Michael or Kyle, Joseph or Ava-Rose,

singing each vowel and consonant

so they stand out, resonate

a pure bell whether the tone struck

be proud and strong, a major key,

or a diminished minor note.

Sometimes, when my daughter catches

her own name, Elaine May, part of a story

I am telling a sister over the phone,

later she’ll ask, quasi-annoyed,

were you talking about me?

Yes, endlessly, shamelessly, I tell stories

about you. I say those fluid syllables,

chosen for the meaning—light—

the music, and to honor your grandmothers,

chosen after discarding countless names.

Yes, I say them again and again and wonder

at the world they have become. Is this

how God says our names? Is this why sometimes

when I hear the wind rustling through the trees,

I turn and listen?

"Saying Our Names" by Marianne Murphy Zarzana. Published in Dust & Fire, 2002.   

Image: "Storyteller," acrylic painting by Kate Langlois (originally full color).