I made it through another day.
I pat myself on the back. But I carry this with me
still: the sight of the blood in the drawer of ever
retail workers till. But I've read of the bruised,
beaten face of a Burmese friend.
Gang-raped with the contents of her uterus bare.
It's not a photo layout that I've ever seen wraped
in the pages of a Pepsi-Cola promotional magazine.
Some days I can do it. Walk in to any store and hand
my money to a peer in some demeaning uniform.
It's thoise ominous three words that stare back at
me from the bottom of a glass and the tags that taunt
me from the back of every piece of clothing I have.
And this soldier wiping blood from his shirt in the
Buramese sun laughes because the coins that I abandoned,
they are weighing down the pant pocket that this economic
partnership has bought. I made it through another day.
I pat myself on the back. But I carry this with me
still: The sight of a blood soaked Buramese soldier
and the full mall parking lot that's funding him.