Painted Thin Landmine
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.
