He’s angry at the over-
ripe sun, the greedy way
she drinks it all in
points out pedestrians
on drips, the children
with dengue fever
she dares to laugh at the sight
of kids on bikes, bigger
than themselves, no light
eyes like longans
faces gleaming in the
jack-fruit scented evening
roads erupt in red
puddles ankle high
she wades, unafraid
he speaks of infection
in the stagnant waters
invoking caution
she sprays Deet
on her bare feet
and rolls her trousers
he complains about
the rain remaining
unmoved by monsoon
she secretly applauds
the tuk-tuk drivers
grooming their chariots
while he’s scornful
of their hammocks
and afternoon siestas
likes to beat them
down, haggle for deals
laughs that she’s loyal
tells her they don’t read
their maps, how much
ambition they lack
she uses the same driver
over and over
paying far too much
he shakes his head
in disbelief, annoyed
at her luminous naivety
she admires the ballet
required to hold a family
safely on a bike in traffic
he scoffs, he’s lived here
longer, feels love and hate
equally, contempt even
those babies boundless
their mothers side-saddle
father on phones
there’s a road toll he
points out – statistics
that joy she presumes
that glimpse of so-called
freedom
he’s sour now
That’s the Siem Reap death ride.
Maggie Rainey-Smith
First published in:
http://thetypewriter.wordpress.com/
