I especially love Thailand in the morning.
I say ‘Thailand’ at the risk of sounding reductive. This is about ‘my’ Thailand, the one I have seen, heard, smelt, felt, grown to love.
This poem came to me over the course of a few mornings, cycling through sleepy Thai villages as they yawn and wake to the day.
with your long-billed herons
stand, balance, stock-still
in the wake of the morning –
walk like an Egyptian
clean silver water basins
engravings twisted like molten hair
with your truck loads of
Burmese and Laotian workers
colorful socks over their faces –
they zip up their moths
and I hope it is just for the Sun
cheeky children dressed
as if ready for some Army brigade
hanging from their handle bars
who dangle from the seat of Daddy’s motorbike
monks who carry
and sling-shots to scatter
brick stamped on
all with the grace of
tin-can wind chimes
with your colored wars and
with your porches
too many bird cages
Why so many bird cages?
Whose song are you catching, Thailand?
What is the tune of your earthen pulse?
I hear your song, I hum along