Jakarta
The thing with Dutch eyes
and a Nippon name breathes
through metal tubes,
soot spraying its collarbones and
lips folding like old raisins.
Its fingers stretch
into skyscrapers
but around it the sewers spill,
nipping ankles with green water.
The thing with bronze skin
and yellow hands
feels tremors
every now and then
and coughs up rivers of petrol.
Through the years it has learned silence;
its body heaves with sound
but its mouth is a sea wall
and the noises shatter inside.
During the longer days,
the city dreams of sinking.
Home becomes a rough and painted thing.
Home becomes the headlines
that like sandpaper
scratches out its name to
‘sinking city’,
‘most polluted city’.
Home becomes the eggshell setting over
potholes, the coat of white on every roadside
as the city tries to start again.