The Magpie
In the Room the Women Come and Go
Woman in Kuala Lumpur
Jet-lagged, I arrived a day early and took a tour:
the Batu Caves, a pewter factory, a batik shop,
a rubber tree plantation, a bug shop.
Newly dead bugs dried and dipped in acetate,
glued to pins for lapels or shaped into objects
westerners would buy. It was foul.
Burned bugs and the cloy of acetate.
I got back on the bus.
The driver left me at a taxi stand. “Easy here,”
he said. “Easy.” Rush hour, a long line.
I was in no hurry, people seemed nice,
business suits, valises, shopping bags.
I listened to conversations I couldn’t understand,
day-chatter tones you’d find anywhere.
The eaters, the readers, the blank looking-ahead
faces, adolescents with electronic toys. At last,
at the front of the line, I said “Ampang Puteri,”
the hospital near my hotel. “The Garden,” I said,
my hand on the door handle. The driver shook
his head. “Nuh,” he said and looked beyond me.
This happened a third time.
To the woman next in line, Muslim I think—
her long everyday dress of flowers, a swath
of folded silk from shoulder to waist: “Good luck,”
I said and meant it, and saw beyond her in the crowd
two policemen in military garb, gold braid
and epaulets. I hoped they spoke enough
English to help me out. Or I’d find a phone,
call the hotel.
