MU YU DRUMS, CHANG CHUN, 1991 

From across the flower garden
the monks' chanting
wakes me as it does  

every morning. From our bed  

I can see into the temple
windows-shadows  

of shaved heads swaying
to the beat  

of Mu Yu drums.
Their noses are perked up 

to the curls of incense;  

I can smell it faintly.
Yesterday I told Tan Yi
I'd like to chant with them, 

to see so much
and not care. She remembers 

when Red Guards took
the monks away
and turned the temple  

into a people's factory
that made uniforms  

in dark colors. Many years later 

the monks, one by one,
came back-the light
in their eyes changed

to fish bowls of suspicion.

Soon she heard the chants
again, the beats a little amiss.