two identical pairs of shoes, blue, abandoned
sit side by side atop the sizzling laterite stairs
flanked by lions whose stone faces
have been softy wiped by weather, time and thieves.
snake-shaped railings resting on the knees
of gods and demons flank the causeway across the moat
some of them have shed a few of their seven cobra heads
three japanese girls strike fashion poses beside the demons
the girl in the middle wears a shirt and shorts
spangled with the stars and stripes
the stone face of the last great king looms above the entrance arch
to the last great city where a million people thrived
before the empire faded and the jungle fed upon the ruins
but the sandstone breasts of dancers carved into the walls
are still as round as they were a thousand years ago
i see a temple mountain topped by construction cranes
surrounded by a jumbled field of stones numbered with white paint
a puzzle waiting for assembly
the terrace of the elephants and the terrace of the leper king
face a long boulevard and the twelve towers of the cord dancers
where acrobats once walked on ropes and now the minibuses
cluster in the shade of sheltering trees
where vendors wait for thirsty visitors with coconuts and soft drinks
and their children flock to us, imploring: madame!
buy a scarf from me, you need these postcards, this book.
i have in french or english. where are you from madame?
buy a shirt from me, a hat, cold water
until our tuk tuk driver, Mr Baby, resting in the shade,
sees the swarm and comes to take us to the next place
out beyond the forest, out through the countryside
where water buffalos stand in ponds and the nursery rice is greening.
palm trees spike across the plains like fuzzy lollipops
as we roll past roadside stalls where gasoline
can be purchased by the liter in refilled soda bottles
the country houses walled in rough cut planks or woven mats
perch high on stilts. adorned with sky blue shutters and bannisters
perhaps a scooter and a sleeping dog a hammock
and some chickens down below
out beside the driveways, figures dressed in cast off clothes and stuffed with straw
wearing baseball hats or motorcycle helmets ward off evil spirits from the fields and home
at the temple called citadel of the women, the bandits have all fled
and we pause in the new visitors center for a cool iced coffee
before walking down the sunbaked path to see the ramayana scenes
rendered in pink sandstone, shiva on his throne
indra in his chariot pulled by three elephants
every surface crawling with leafy detail
on the long ride back to town we stop at the land mine museum
american and russian bomb cases stand on end in rows
beside the entrance path. glass cabinets inside
the museum are stuffed with a menagerie
of mines, grenades and rockets
the admission fee and souvenirs support a school and home for child amputees
fresh victims of the unexploded ordinance still lurking in the ground.
i bought a landmine-shaped bar of soap - made in new jersey
that night a storm blacked out the lights and cable television, the air conditioning
so we sat out on the balcony, listening to the choruses of frogs,
the geckos chirping and burping, dogs barking in the distance
warm and moist, starless, dark.
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