To Kampuchea
And thus when my takara
hums his last oriental tune
and the parasol decides to forgo
gentle pitter pats on my window,
the wind’s resilience to a Cambodian breeze,
and when rice fields stop blooming,
tillers refusing to rove, I won’t
hear my call to rise
and thus will be the end.
So when your people
lull their last, early-morning song
and the tallows, the palm trees, decide
to hell with saccharine stenches,
the sweet morning sirens, mother earth’s
refusal for a daybreak draft, the drones of Dângrêk…
Or, possibly when you rise before the monsoon quakes,
our lips never putting, our arms refusing to rove too,
I won’t feel the call to rise here,
and so will be the end of us.
Because time flies as days resist pause.
Lying in peace, our limbs intertwined
like threads of wildlife, the Tonle Sap, the lakes
flowing, the provinces, the steep slopes of Phom Aoral.
Once though, she tiptoed away with my breath,
a kiss faded, moisture-laden like
ripples in the gulf.
Hardly revitalized, I pray for more time,
Tomorrow can’t be my last day here
pleading for a life in this moment.
A life with you, Khmer,
right here in Cambodia.
Jasmine Silver has been published in a variety of online and print venues. Look for her in the near future: Anon, Flutter and Barely South Review. For any further information, feel free to email: [email protected].