Your shitty hand-holds seem some
Unreal thing that I once knew
And the way we sat with the world
Between our crossed legs
And ate and smiled.

One week here and there
Might seem insignificant for one
Unaware
Of how I keep time.

Some great chance to connect with
A relative, bald and blind.

You could say I'm trying
At least I'm not crying
When his head turns
And I'm not given the choice
To reciprocate.

It's fumigation day at Gita Bayu
Barbed fences and small dogs wearing shoes
Guard the entrance.

Through the smoke, men in gas masks sway
With their guns, past the palatial four-stories.
Small women adjust their Hijabs between
Scrubbing cars.

I sit and suck in the grey stuff
Open-legged, make weird noises
From my cigarette-hole.

I use all my hands to cover my breasts
Turn my head and weep when they stare at me.