Dixie Plate

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Dixie Plate 


The Tibetan Buddhist monk bows 

his weight against the levers of a yellow 

Cub Cadet outside the temple plopped off

Highway 27, that asphalt bayonet 

piercing through the Chickamauga Battlefield 

and a potluck of Baptist, tinfoil towns. 


Fall, and late September sun glints

off the sweat of his bronzed head

as the scooped sleeves of his blood-red robes 

catch the breeze that swirls beneath 

his twelve foot golden god 

staring down the ribboned flag

of the neighbor's Rebel one.


The air is orange with incense

of fresh-cut grass, low 

om of motor, mower circling 

like a mantra. There’s a pattern to it

all, but the lines are indiscernible from here. 


And are we surprised if given 

this abundance, and just one trip 

through the line, the flavors are bound

to rise and spill the binds sectioning

the disposable plate of understanding, 

edges casseroling into one, indefinable 

hallelujah, home-baked? 

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