The child
swirled
around contour lines of Bika Ambon…
Komunis’ honeycomb swam,
much too slow.
Ammunition emptied,
creating ripples.
The stove’s heat ran,
permeating across hiding,
small ponds.
Bombs cascaded,
Scattering yeast from sea, from father, from mother.
The child
Sang
Like piercing things do,
about textured waves.
during high tide.