I need more eyes, another pair of ears
spare nose and tongue, a second skin.
To see the thousand million signs
and writhing vines, the ganglia of wires
strung from post to post,
to balconies and roofs.
To see the banana trees
between the motorcycle dealer
and the cafe. The mansion beside
the bridal dress shop.
The lotus wrought in iron
on the window security bars.
The chrome spear points
that top the spikes
of golden fences.
More ears to hear
the swarms of scooters,
the crunch of gears
in the wheezing buses.
The roosters that never cease
their crowing noon or night,
the yowl of a tomcat fight,
the plaintive notes
of Isaan instrumentals
or elevator pop in the mall.
The mellow flow of spoken Thai
even though I understand so little.
Another nose
to separate the mix
on the street of jasmine leis,
roasting meat or corn, and diesel fumes.
The sweet perfume Belgian waffles
at the Victory Monument Skytrain station.
The musk of muddy earth
and rotting leaves.
A stronger tongue to taste
the bite and spice of larb
or nam prik ong,
the pungency of basil,
the cool restorative crunch
of cucumber.
The sweet nectar of fresh lime juice.
The comfort of warm sticky rice
with mango.
I need a second skin,
shedable as a cobra’s
when the rain refuses to fall
and the street feels like a sauna.
Another skin to keep me warm
in the over air-conditioned train.
And a special skin, at least an acre
to enjoy the midnight breeze
while gazing at the glow
of clouds lit up
by the vast metropolis below
when curtained lightning
sends a fifteen minute storm
to wash the trees and streets
and forgotten sheets
left out to dry
the day before.
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