In Phnom Penh,

French colonialism rots black,

its constructs yellow mummies beneath

skins

and skins

of People's Party posters.

Buddhists in the park sell kites

like paneled orchids,

burn incense that curls out red into white like fingers forever,

buy birds out of iron jaw cages to free.

Men in uniforms and trucks,

with megaphones,

lots of saying,

and nothing to be said,

blare by like elephants

to ensure that a sham runs smoothly.