Laurel Nakanishi Llanto in Flame

it is hard to remain human on a day
when leaves cut light
on the bedroom screen
and the myna birds do not look away
the guavas blind still fall
on the already fermenting ground
it is something like pity
a bit of hair pushed up
against a root exposed with my foot
I nudge a ragged cloth
it would have been blue

I refuse understanding
I want language to be absolute
until the leaves are knifes
the birds rimmed yellow eyes
until the soft rotting guavas are bodies
now dry now dust
in a field outside Phnom Penh


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