Burma, or Colonialism Gone Wrong

The sky today, a collection

of clouds above

the power poles,

old, electrified wire

unwound across the city.

It’s so clear

that I’m not from here,

though there’s nowhere

else for now, save a slow-motion

rewind of a time of us, then,

a flock of grey birds

in the heart of the wind.

Someday we’ll be skeletal

all over again,

and the new day

will be nothing more

than a slant of light

that goes

right through you.

Burmese Day #2

Pale song-birds

nest under the eaves,

light green this side of the rain.

It’s no longer possible

to ignore the river,

the flooded pagoda—

a stroke of luck

as the stupa lit up,

struck gold

when the rain went.

Burmese Spice Market, Killing Floor

Downtown, across the street

from the Hindu temple

the spice market abuts

the abattoir, where, once

domesticated, then gutted, their blood runs down

the concrete gutters.

I have had no one’s hands

on me in forever,

and if I go this way—

in yet another sodden

southeast Asian city—

the sky gone grey,

dragonflies swarming

in broken arcs

above the broad-leaf trees—

there’ll be little left.

So today I’ll take this

walking steady, and slow,

in the flow of human traffic,

for the moment,

current.