Cambodia
‘There are no angels’, the American said,
standing by his microlight, and young Cambodian wife.
‘Pol Pot, US, Khmer, and Vietnamese, all laid those mines.’
‘Been here since sixty nine, this dust is my dust now.
These children too.’
Legs apart, his glasses black against the glare.
A swarm, a jamboree of limbs, follow his little craft,
their shrieks and laughter, caught up in exhaust and sandstorm trails,
a shimmering heat against their smooth, brown skin.
‘Look closer, ringworm, decay, and septic wounds
This is Cambodia, not historic sites and sounds,
This today, this blackened hope,
crawls alongside Mercedes, Honda and Toyota.
We buy in ointments, creams and reject drugs,
administer as best we can.’
No wrinkles, lines or watery eyes, this country of the child
Is joking, running at speed, to catch that man,
to cut a slice, to touch the wing, a dollar,
a glossy cover, a beauty with whitened skin,
to rub against and say that’s mine.
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