by H. Tsory
Fish flops out of a basket in a market stall, never to see the sea again.
Pails of curried locust, platters of candied spider…
Wild black dogs with an unassailable wisdom of these streets.
Many old whites have washed up on the shores of the Mekong, 18 year old Cambodian girls by their side.
They are not the ones who will be conducting morning ablutions, burning incense and making offerings to ancestors, but for the trace thought of dear old mum and dad, would they be proud, could they understand?