We are met with outstretched hands
by those nearest the door. I think
the woman wants to charge us,
so give her five kwai.She pockets it, but
we’re immediately seized on by others.
A nun ushers us further in and the begging
subsides. Hundreds of pilgrims spin
prayer wheels, clack beads, chant.
The sound rises and sinks on a tide
of murmurings. Sea surge sweeps us
up the steps to the first great hall.
Red-robed monks chant, bang drums,
and everywhere pilgrims bow
in rhythm. We bow and prepare to leave,
but a pilgrim motions us to go on through
a narrow doorway and up steep stairs.
At the top an agéd monk is perched
in a deep window opening, eyes closed,
his prayer wheel spinning, red robe
open to his hairless, rib-strung chest.
We pass him, enter a room
of statues, many draped
with prayer flags, white scarves,
and money, where a young monk bobs
as he reads from a long prayer book,
his voice caught by a microphone
that’s strung above his head.
His words reverberate throughout
the monastery. He smiles at us,
clasps his hands together, bows,
without ever pausing in his prayers.
Then out onto a roof-top packed
with pilgrims. The chants flow
over and around us. Some chant
their own prayers, others follow
the monk’s sonorous waves.
We’re shown a ladder and descend.
They motion us on, and we see
yet another ladder awaits. Kif turns
back:Can’t we find a way to stay?
I make hand motions and chanters
clear spots for us on either side
of a narrow passageway. Above us
there’s no roof, we see heads bob
and spinning prayer wheels flicker.
The sound comes from all around:
from above, floating down, from below
like a bass thump, from within.
We close our eyes. Tears well.
Fervent chants bathe our bodies.
I mimic what I hear, feel the humming
inside resonate with the humming
without. Kif’s Mormon prayers mingle
with theirs. But it’s not our place.
We rise, hands touch us as we exit.
A woman pinches my butt as I pass,
laughs loudly and covers her black-
toothed mouth with the crinkle
of her hand. A bowing monk ladles
a splash of tea into our cupped hands.
On the street we brace ourselves against
the alley wall and breathe, the cobbles
beneath our feet no longer stable,
still drunk on the chanting sea
that rocks and rocks.