On longing days           I remember the turtle carcasses
                           stuffed in paracetamol boxes                                buried beneath
the rambutan tree                     rotted into the soil, probably
                        just mulch by now     steeped in mango husks,
fallen frangipani,               a few hundred cigarette butts
                        cause mom was on six packs a week        & there's no way
she didn't mark that house. 

At my turtle funerals,        her smoke curled up in 

ghostly tendrils                            through the rambutan tree's heavy boughs
                        where a python got stuck                        one sunday after gobbling
too many squirrels.  It was my place        I knew its secrets: 

the banana plant that bore                         tiny fruit was behind the mango tree

I found it before the fruit bats.

Rambutans were a mixed bag,                                       mostly rotten before        
they hit the ground.                                  Up on twisted branches
                        in that diabolical heat for too long. 

Now my place is                                        someone else's,