The rambutan man’s ghost
Stands under the boa.
Stick knees and dhoti,
And his blistered fruit cape,
Hedgehog eggs dipped in blood,
Smoldering white hearts creeping out,
Still redolent of
      Char.

The tiger woman’s ghost
Stands across the street.
Strands of tape and
Curls of copper wire exude
From the hole in her belly
And below her hips,
      Nothing.

The soldier man’s ghost
Stands amidst scorched earth.
Nothing more than one leg,
An arm, and an ear,
Tied together by stubbornness.
Exhumed from politics,
And delineations of
      Skin.

The ghost of the bomb
Is nowhere to be found.
Only a memory amongst wraiths.
If it were there, it would say
      Nothing of the tiger woman
                 Hip-less, leg-less.
      Nothing of the soldier man
                 Heart-less, head-less.
      Nothing of the rambutan man,
                 Unmourned by camphor
                 And incense.
It would speak only of
      Burnt rambutan,
      And within,
                 Honey-sweet pearls,
                 Now ash.