In the Rice Field Where Leeches Lurk
Night bruises in shades of blue and gray
out here where the moon is light.
Pigs grunt as they shift in sleep,
questioning the quiet from inside. The wind
reels the door ajar, winding the wooden frame open.
The kitchen no longer echoes groans from the hungry
from days before and many years after. Bitter
melons and water lotuses rest on chipped platters,
and cold porridge drips from a tipped spoon,
next to the chopstick and severed chair legs.
In the rice field where leeches lurk
just before the bleeding sky sets,
a tea cup languid in silence makes no waves.
By the road, veiled in the lace of shadows
and a handful of hair, a stained machete
captures the moon and the black ripples
of boots marching away.