Peauladd Huy was born in Phnom Penh. Her latest work, published by Connotation Press: An Online Artifact was nominated for the Sundress "Best of the Net," the Dzanc "Best of the Net," and the Pushcart Prize. And with deep gratitude to Connotation Press she’ll have a book, forthcoming soon.
Think of a river
The water is not named
From every depth it runs
Water is water
The river is not without
Its flow. Its life--
The life of a creature is in the blood
When he enters the water reddens--
You are not wrong: blood is thicker than water,
If permissible, blood can float a river
And what remains
A river are found.
Where I can be of most use?
I can be the pit the rain
Pools after they emptied and filled,
The flood now sits over the rice plains,
The great lake stars
Space like eyes on the moon
Tonight. The moon. The moon
(What can I say?). Sometimes light I can see
Flickering over the water they are watching.
It returns like a missing father. Staggering
Bruised night to night, in various shades of light
Eaten by a monster
Darkness in my nightmares.
And nightmaring (what to say about it):
It is an eye. Opening
The theatrical darkness I’ve entered, not once
Was I permitted to be bored
With his torture, his resourcefulness to disguise
And ambush—the gnat is not always a gnat, the spider,
The web, the young girl looking on the garden
Of white lotuses suddenly turns bone-white
Genocide, those rice fields: when will they stop
This constant façade over these years
Old bones, scaffolding with every intricate
Part I am to them? In this blank space, this vacant dark wall
Spanning a grotesque mirror and its flat face, the moon I see
The children following, me not far, breathless with questions, my mother and her death
Camp of mothers calling here and there: Are they there?
Are they here? in the corner
Back I first did not see. Are they too, they still have hidden in rice
Acreages, I am to appeal for (to poetry of all)?
Now dirty bits broken up and stuck together (they too don’t want
A whole mirror regarding such images distorting their perfect poetry).
So I’m torn once and twice (are we right
Calling on the service of others
To view our deaths?) Once committed; twice visited
(Day and night); and three times I am real
Real is real to disguise
You all amongst night
Trees, blooms as common as rain, flood and fog
Fields, my mind
(You all’s actually) in voices of petals and leaves
Falling, faces cut features—a human collage
Of planetary deaths: can you see
One’s falling dark a million stars are shown?