Yây remember when
cheese in the sky
looked so yummy?
Green stems soaked in
water above our knees.
Mud crinkled in dead skin,
callused toes, squeaking
inside my new black boots.
How much was paid that day
for Khuṇ pū̀s’ brown hands?
Was enough paid for
the rumbling in Anurak’s
tummy when he ate rice
caked in blood?
My own back hurt
like camels across
the Indian Ocean.
A circle of yellow
blanketed by black night
could feed my entire village.
It stared when flesh reeked
in dirt and did not help
any village. I wanted to eat
it whole and say no to the day
my brown hands turned red.
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