After the war
We buried the guns but not the ghosts.
They linger in the market’s hum,
in children’s games, in toasts we make
to futures we pretend will come.
The rice grows tall where trenches were,
the bomb-craters brim with rain.
To read the rest of this article, and to access all Mekong Review content, please subscribe. If you are an existing subscriber, please login to your account to continue reading.
More from Mekong Review
-
Poetry from David Chandler
-
A poem by Aiden Heung
-
Poetry from Rory Harris
- Tags: Aisha Khalid, Issue 40, Poetry