The Color of Monks’ Robes

Sarah Dickenson

Tibetan child monk in monestry, Litang, Kham, TIbet. (Photo courtesy: Alex Saurel) (Tibetan Review)

The Color of Monks’ Robes

In Tibet, rich, thick, red,
flowing like wings in temples.
Saffron in Laos, an orange
I wanted to touch—
felt the heavy hem against
my bended knees on the dawn-covered
street as I lifted cupped hands filled with rice.
Folds and folds even in my living room
where the monk sat draped, his eyes
half-closed, his disappearing words
like mist, something
to remember but not hold.

Riddles

Take nine, multiply it by three,
subtract seven, divide by four,
what’s the number now?
my mind moving
like lightning for you
as we sat at the dining room table,
creaking wood, that could squeeze
more leaves into its stretching. 

Each morning I walk outside,
inhale the scent of wild mint
that fringes the forest,
the call of a rooster, the bark
of one dog. I need the dirt beneath
my feet, the leaves just out of reach,
the wind as harvest—what sweeps
below the skin and takes me in.
Where are you now? I ask no one.

The First Place 

What if
there had been
no garden
no clay
no rib
would we have
made ourselves?
We made children
didn’t we?
How easy
that was—
just love
and touch
and my body
a house
a nest
a bloom
a new world full
of yellow leaves
deep rivers
& forgiveness.

Where We Might Go

Rise to a passing cloud,
slurry into unencumbered
atoms, settle into deepness
of dirt or sea, see a god,
sit among rocks, breathe
as a body could not,
barnacle onto wing,
float in acres and acres
of air, release need,
know before-rain,
& bloom what shined inside.

Sarah Dickenson retired early from teaching English to focus on writing. She lives in Vermont, carves in stone, wants to be a better watercolor painter, and rides her bike a lot. Travel has opened her eyes. She has three poetry collections, The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), and With a Polaroid Camera (2019).