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.


Copyright © Kevin Dobbs, 2005.  All Rights Reserved.