The Death Ride

He’s angry at the over-
ripe sun, the greedy way
she drinks it all in

points out pedestrians
on drips, the children
with dengue fever

she dares to laugh at the sight
of kids on bikes, bigger
than themselves, no light

eyes like longans
faces gleaming in the
jack-fruit scented evening

roads erupt in red
puddles ankle high
she wades, unafraid

he speaks of infection
in the stagnant waters
invoking caution

she sprays Deet
on her bare feet
and rolls her trousers

he complains about
the rain remaining
unmoved by monsoon

she secretly applauds
the tuk-tuk drivers
grooming their chariots

while he’s scornful
of their hammocks
and afternoon siestas

likes to beat them
down, haggle for deals
laughs that she’s loyal

tells her they don’t read
their maps, how much
ambition they lack

she uses the same driver
over and over
paying far too much

he shakes his head
in disbelief, annoyed
at her luminous naivety

she admires the ballet
required to hold a family
safely on a bike in traffic

he scoffs, he’s lived here
longer, feels love and hate
equally, contempt even

those babies boundless
their mothers side-saddle
father on phones

there’s a road toll he
points out – statistics
that joy she presumes
​
that glimpse of so-called
freedom
he’s sour now
​
That’s the Siem Reap death ride.