Martial law was his greatest work,
thought the general in his crisp,
khaki uniform. This was his country,
his Myanmar. All of his underlings
in brown caps following. But there—
riding on the back of a dilapidated
motorcycle was my son, thankfully
covered in cloth and dust. The general
didn’t see him, did not see the work
he was doing at the orphanage, up the
the mountains on treks he was leading
to Buddhist temples in this lush land.
Did not see the tattoo below the layers
of sweaty clothes, a tattoo of a peacock,
the symbol of the opposition party,
quietly moving across this country.