You peer out from the shade of a bamboo hat,
sad-slanted eyes shrink in contrast
to a wide open smile. Your father is stern,
he sells shrimp from a white bucket of ice.
Your eyes are doves floating free
atop your silent soapbox. The curb is your castle,
and I am your cortege, from a faraway land.

The continents thrashing our oceans apart
are your uncles without feet or arms
thanks to the birth defects my country gave yours,
in the war. But you are no stranger to mutations
the way I am a stranger

to the garbage that rots along these pebbled streets,
and the swollen stomachs that line them.
To the boiling buses with bumpers that drag the dirt
and shirtless children shoved to the windowsills.
My palms squeeze sweat, helpless, I have been told,
just look, don’t touch. So I clench my fist tight.
Your hands are open, but they cringe when

you feel your father’s eyes pulsing
into your back. His pupils are two black cats
that scratch your neck and hiss:
The enemy is near, the enemy is near.

I step closer, you remove your hat.
Our eyelashes flutter in unison.
We do not believe in war.