My
henna lips
you
loved,
before
the world began to bleed
through
your body.
Each night you take Da Nang,
and
Chu Li to bed with us.
Night
birds become winged engines,
you
grow cat pupils,
and
wild animals hide under furniture.
I
am your mama-san
holding
you through a midnight skirmish,
slipping
your hand under my nightgown.
When
the curtains wave threats
and
you dive to the floor,
I
pick you up.
The
night Cambodia breaks loose in the bedroom,
and
perfume bottles explode against the mirror,
I
pack my bags and become a refugee.
On
my way out,
I
meet the cat at the door
with
feathers in his mouth.
Lara
Gularte