Landmine. - Painted Thin

I made it through another day.

I pat myself on the back.

But I carry this with me still: the sight of the blood in the drawer of ever

retail workers till.

But I’ve read of the bruised,

beaten face of a Burmese friend.

Gang-raped with the contents of her uterus bare.

It’s not a photo layout that I’ve ever seen wraped

in the pages of a Pepsi-Cola promotional magazine.

Some days I can do it.

Walk in to any store and hand

my money to a peer in some demeaning uniform.

It’s thoise ominous three words that stare back at me from the bottom of a glass and the tags that taunt

me from the back of every piece of clothing I have.

And this soldier wiping blood from his shirt in the

Buramese sun laughes because the coins that I abandoned,

they are weighing down the pant pocket that this economic

partnership has bought.

I made it through another day.

I pat myself on the back.

But I carry this with me still: The sight of a blood soaked Buramese soldier

and the full mall parking lot that’s funding him.