They don’t tell you that a temple is just a wound that learned to grow gold leaf.
But at the edge of my vision—just at the edge—a woman in a traditional pha sin adjusts a flower in her hair. Her skin is the color of old ivory. Her eyes are two black canals. pee mak temple
I came back to the wat because the city had too many edges. Too many neon signs that cut the sky. But here, under the ordination hall’s rust-red tiles, the air is thick as old breath. The monks chant in a frequency that vibrates in my molars. I close my eyes, and she is there. They don’t tell you that a temple is
So she stayed.
I open my eyes. The incense stick has burned down to a gray worm. Her eyes are two black canals
The temple didn’t banish her. It housed her.