By Monica Sok
In these fields, nothing grows. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing grows.
Mosquitoes live longer, as long as trees. Longer.
Mosquitoes will bite children who belong to their parents,
and the girl who runs to the hut where her family eats
will be caught by vultures,
kept in the temple
where children are kept.
Nothing grows in these fields. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing grows.
In Tonle Sap far off, there is a bloated face inside
a blue plastic bag which wished to see the sky,
and so, opened its eyes forever; and that old man
they whipped last night
could not get up this morning, it was necessary
to tie his hands to a krasang tree.
This is real life not a story!
Life! Life! We sleep
in bed at night
but do not dream, because life!
Monica Sok is a Brooklyn-based Cambodian poet whose poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Narrative, Crab Orchard Review, andBellevue Literary Review, among others.
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