Three Little Words

In memory of the 90,000 West African Soldiers who fought for the British Imperial Army during WWII.

Outside of Yangon,
amidst the smooching umbrellaed couples,
greenery swelling, a stray,
transient cat,
I mourned.

I touched the white pillars
of time, names of men engraved
and graved there.

I walked over an ossuary of dead soldiers
a terrine of bones and bedrock,
the reminder of a forest now abated.

Beneath some names,
whether in English or Arabic,
a Star of David, or no star at all
as guides to the living,
a sweating bouquet wrapped in plastic
is gently placed
collecting dew.

Soon a storm will break
over the mausoleum
and rain water will fill
the depressions of the dirt.

I forgot my umbrella today
as I came here to mourn,
the depressions of my body
flooded, finally.

Ankle deep, I feel my feet
tethering down,
slithering past
worms and false promise,
down to the heroism
of the soil, down
to you.

Read more from Issue No. 6 or share on Twitter.