Sangha by Carly Sachs

for Erika

Sangha is a purple room in Brooklyn,
or your heart lit up in soft white light,
the matted orange cat
who comes with the morning sun,
and the bowl you keep for her by the door—

Sangha is the lasagna (made specifically for you
by your friend who knows you don’t eat meat
like the rest of her family), all things coming together
at the table that is kismet,
the black dog begging by your feet—

Call sangha the string or the beads or the prayer
making strangers unravel, threading friendships
through the clothesline of city buildings,
a skyline of storylines—
sangha is how we should touch each other.

It is the bead or stone released into the pond
and the ripples across the water, the sound
and the vibration, the voice that travels
back downriver to the meru bead
of your heart.


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