The hot Malaysian sun
Beats down on my
bare chest
As I glance up from
Hemingway’s
The Snows of
Kilimanjaro
To see an exotic
woman
Walking towards
me
Through banana
trees
Her breasts
As full as the
ripe coconuts
A man is
cutting from high up in a tree
With wide
swaths of his machete
As a curious monkey
watches
I don’t have my
camera with me
It’s in the hut
by the mango trees
Overlooking the
lagoon
There is no
protection from mosquitoes
But, it does
offer shade
Safely away from
the burning sun
I contemplate
getting the camera
But, it’s just
too hot to move
As my sweat
drips on the pages
And sticks to
them
Making the
story
Thicker than it
already is
If I did have
my camera
I would capture
The shadow and
shade
Surrounding her
eyes
The contours
and contrast
Engulfing
The deep curves
of her hips
The light
dancing across
Her hot brown
skin
As she saunters
by
My American
gaze
Smiling
With humble
provocation
Perhaps
Burning deep
inside
To set free
Every
constraint of her culture
In one sweeping
motion…
The machete
stops me
As the man
descends from the tree
And offers me a
cool drink of milk
From the hairy
tropical nut
He just cracked
open
And now
The light is
past
The moment a
memory
The sun is at
her back
As I watch her
walk past
Laughing
children
Taking durian’s
from a tree
And as I watch
her walk
Further still
Into the
shadows of the mountains
It seems that centuries
of subjugation
By the Chinese
Arabs
British
Japanese (Nipponese)
Conquest of
everything
By whomever
foreign
Could steal
their tropical soul
For a moment
Chains her ever
so effectively
To a prison
She doesn’t
even know exists
To my great
sadness
No comments:
Post a Comment