Mate Ka Moris Ukun Rasik An

Dickheads shit-talk huddled and single-file.
First-world frat-boys and prairie skinheads who will never walk a mile
or mourn a murdered friend in this tiny woman’s shoes.
Drink up and mumble your abuse. I’m still humbled by it all:
and around the same time I was riding with no hands,
busting windows and getting busy behind the sportsplex
with Labonte’s older sister decked out in her Speedos,
Bella was flinching from the sting of a
Depo Proveran «family planning»,
her own Pearl Harbour and a holocaust spanning
25 years to the rest of her life.
A prison my country underwrote in paradise.
And in the shadows of Santa Cruz,
she crossed her fingers behind her back.
Built Suharto a Trojan horse
and lay still till the motherfucker sent her north
where as night fell she emerged
with a box under her arm
that held her pledge of allegiance and her uniform.
And she laid it at the gates of the General’s embassy
and her whisper echoed into dawn as she disappeared:
The truth will set my people free.