Aung San Suu Kyi

The Lady in the house
disappeared like the moon behind clouds
No one had seen her for many years
except in photographs or dreams
Who knew if she was real anymore or just a ghost?
Like all the ones vanished along the Irrawaddy?
The sad-eyed Lady with memories of steel
whose name, Suu Kyi, is whispered
on the lips of school children who
floated down the river like dropped fruit
The Lady of the house who drifted through
the fetid rice crops washed up for the gods
who prayed among the wounded
and wore their flowers in her hair
She digs into the mud of imperfection
and weeps among the graves like Llorona
Daughter of Aung San, the Liberator
and sleeps inside the tiger’s cage
waiting for the long night to end so that morning
may open the petals of forgiveness in her heart

 

 

 

Exile

 

In clear, blue space

a funnel cloud spins

into its vortex

Flesh, form, custom and oaths

Country and possessions jettisoned

in one breath

And it is we, women, who suffer all

like nuns cloistered in shadows

under eaves and mangroves

our desires small and undecipherable

as dust motes