Remembering Bali
Published in
1 min readFeb 9, 2016
surging along the dusty road
a sand cloud
from which his tower rises.
hundreds of batik-wrapped arms
guide him to the place of pyre.
his mummified flesh
now captive in the swaying pinnacle,
while sacrificial chicks flutter
towards ashen freedom.
the gamelan moan
for the dance that begs him to depart.
amid shades of green
the charcoal clearing awaits his leave.
the grass —
from which others rose —
smolders still.
no black —
only crimson, emerald sarong-kabajas,
everything gold,
stuffed pisang-leaves pungent,
undulating bamboo baskets above heads.
the structure still rocking
when the lone goat cries.
his wife in white visible through the smoke he feeds
(I exhale the sweet clove incense of my kretek cigarette)
