The first thing you do
when you’ve checked
into your guest house
is fuck
on the king-size mattress
that lies close to the floor
beneath an antique ceiling fan,
her head hanging over the edge,
black hair pooled in long swirls
on the white tiles.
You reach for the sloping rise of her breasts,
her nipples stiff and wanting,
as you savor the cream of her cunt.
When you enter her she moans.
You try to make it last
as she wraps her legs around you.
In the night you wander
the labyrinth streets of Yangon
in search of something to eat.
You find a dimly-lit stall on a corner
near a hilltop where a young Burmese mother
serves Mohinga, a thick tangy soup,
in big steaming bowls with noodles
and an egg in it.
It’s better than any she’s had, she says.
You are pleased to see her happy.
For dessert you buy durian
in a back-alley soi
from a shirtless boy with a machete.
He stands beneath a bare bulb
clipped onto the side of a building
as he splits open a large spiked fruit,
then another,
and serves them on plastic plates.
You sit on a crumbling concrete landing
and suck the pungent flesh
off thick flat seeds
until you both are thoroughly satisfied.
To find your way back
you retrace your steps
by landmarks you remember passing:
a pharmacy window,
an empty beer hall,
a banyan tree next to a street lamp.
You stop at each crossroads
to make sure you agree
that you’re headed in the right direction.
This is how it is with a new lover, you think:
hunger awake, watching for signs,
finding your way
along a foreign path
that you’ve traveled on before.
