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I am here
-for my momma, my hero.
1
There is a reason I am here
in the world. I can no longer wait
to be acknowledged by someone believing
that this is only for matters concerning the earth
and what’s already done. I am somebody –
once speaking face to face,
man to man, but you dismissed me,
kicking me in my chest and head, again and again, when I appealed to you
speaking the same language
in the routine of torture. You said, shut up,
if you cry, you’ll get more. What was I to do
but stand up for myself. Your threats no longer affect me.
Do you hear me? I am beyond reproach.
What more can you do?
Piss on my bones again?
2
Don’t be alarmed, Reader.
I am here to speak
because they are too afraid
to remember, still too stunned to speak out
what are making them cry out at night. (Children, mothers
and fathers now, are still shaking
awake between damp sheets
in the a.m. hours. Refusing sleep
to deny a life of nightmares.)
I am not like them. Did you think that I would shut down that easily?
That I would crumble again and yield
(to bury the hatchet) because now you said
impunity for the Khmer Rouge defectors. That their slates are wiped clean,
each killing dismissed, each life meaningless.
3
Reader discretion is advised.
What do you make me of? An animal
again before my frightened children: a ewe
to be gutted-up for your experimental
eating pleasure. You, you, and you over there
in council chair, do you think I don’t know
how many gall bladders it took to dye
your eyes a permanent yellow?
You, you, you, you, you. Whoever is left,
you know who you are. Shame on you,
even now, still having the gall to deny
us our part in our own history book?
We’re a saga, an era of mass slain.
What are you afraid of –
that your own children will see you as monsters?