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.