“what peace do you find here
when you walk these fields alone?”
the question hung thick in the air.
unsure who had asked,
the little boy screamed at the birds
intent on robbing him.
had it been the wind, hot and humid
or the early sun,
blanketed by a grey haze?
the never-ending rice paddies
spread out like the ocean below him,
and the blades of grass tittered,
teasing his ankles.
he thought back to his first time,
when his mother decided
it was finally time.
as he waved his scythe around,
he remembered he used to pretend
he was slicing his enemies’ heads off.
how she had laughed.
nothing much had changed;
he still liked to pretend.
and so he lifted his voice,
willing it to be carried to whoever
had asked the question:
“the peace of pretending
she’s still by my side.”
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