Immolation

Under the thuggish sun,

two young monks—
a scrunch of orange
on a moped—
fly by like a fireball.

Dry Season

We move as if underwater, vomiting
beneath an atomic sky — the toilets drink

diarrhea. Dinner is noodle soup
surrounded by sweat-soaked napkins.

Our faces are liquid, eyes raw
and red as the setting sun.

Roads release dammed rivers
of heat. We wade through veils of brine

to Google and search for a diagnosis
to confirm our fear of drowning.

Subsiding is Bliss

On the road, a fresh corpse
beneath shades of neon—

everything
in its right place, everything.

Palms down; quiet as a monk
skin creased with events.

A halo of blood reflects blades
of light from diesel-powered devas

encircling—
spluttering incense.

Nathan A Thompson has written for The Guardian, Independent and Daily Mail. He is currently working on his first collection of poetry. He splits his time between a rural Cambodian village, where he teaches English at a Buddhist temple, and Phnom Penh. His portfolio can be found at www.nathanathompson.co.uk.