— The Tamang, an ethnic group living in the Himalayan regions of Nepal, practice Tibetan Buddhism and produce primitive looking masks for use in shamanistic rituals.
This mask has the look of a mountain,
its hard wood hacked from an aged tree
in a virgin forest—chin cracked, eyes
and mouth like caves opening into the
black depths of mind where shamanic
energy buzzes.
Yesterday I opened a package of masks sent
from China—not from any mystical mountains
but probably made in some sweat shop, poorly
paid laborers churning them out.
The white one I wore to the market parking lot
had a pinched nose peak like a bird’s beak,
I did not become a bird, did not fly home with
food in my beak, but merely unloaded my
groceries, ate, and went to sleep.
Tribal peoples believe that shamans can take
flight, becoming ravens, or run through dense
woods as wolves, craving prey. I would be a
raven, cawing harshly as I spiral far above.
I would peer through this mask’s ragged eyes
to see past what is to what may be— seeking
any vision beyond the singular dimension of
this pandemic slice of time.
Masks of the World
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