He powdered and kohled more than usual. He was hiding the bruises on his face.
A naval officer arrived last night and fucked him. Played his face with his gun.
Dressed in flirt gloves and glittering gown, he danced. To the rhythm of their laughter.
A few men in their khaki uniforms. Game for a drag queen dance.
He learned Fawn Thai from his mother. He fluttered his hands like a moth.
Like the white silken filament that soared. Through the smoke and yellow lights.
He bent towards the stars, arms stretched, hands curved. The soldiers cheered and laughed.
Oh he loved this dance of the fingernails. But not like this, not this way.
He followed the moth through the hovel, waving his arms. It chose the man in the tunic.
Cheers and a hoot prompted the man to rise. They danced, the moth and the bomb.
The soldiers outside came in to watch. A spectacle had taken place.
The Princess of Siam and the Samurai of Satsuma. The drag queen of Chiang Mai.
He danced for his mother and the drafted sex slaves. He will not dance like this again.
With a final curve of his dying body. The clink and the triggering pin on his finger.
He stretched back his neck, breaking. The moth jittered into the firelight and burned.
Someone spat on his face and he closed his eyes. The sun swallowed their lust to the ground.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Wednesday, February 19, 2014