Green rows and rows of hazy rubber trees.
Dark mooing masses tough as black jerky.
Behind a dry dust pursues us, the disturber of its rest.
A needle before my father flickers fitfully.
I bleat each time he hits a hundred and more,
A five-year-old speed alarm. He teases me, his eye
Seeking hers but finding only the blankness of
Her curtain of hair. She's looking at the village child
Melting with speed, feeling herself seeping through
The aircon vents until, gagging, my head in a bag,
My mother returns, cradling me like a weapon
Silently pointed at his head. He calls a truce in Ayer Hitam
Where embattled, they come up for air, watching each other
While accosted by clouds of chasing dust.