by Cynthia Dewi Oka

another morning burns
under growl of tanks their hunger
flattens rock and bone alike

sun’s scrutiny ruptured my body
chosen. fingers
too old for their length

pull and prod and manoeuvre
me into sweat misted palm
smaller than a grown maple leaf

invisible my mission
begins in garbled pitch
wailing flaps like dying fish

i knew my turn would come
soon the days of watching
blood crust to earth would end

in the seconds waiting i plot
another life
in the dim of olive trees

Continue reading “terrorist”

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