No finches today. The air
smells like burnt cockroaches.

My father watches the news:
Jakarta burned through the night.

Water cannons, tear gas, police
in riot gear, wave after wave

of bodies crashing. The masses
losing their numbers, shouts

morphing into screams. I see
a picture on my phone:

one protestor embracing
a policeman, the sky

clouded with smoke. Yesterday,
I didn’t leave the house,

afraid of being arrested
or bringing trouble to my

family. Truly, it’s my father
I worry about, the things

I might bring back from his
memory. Every protest,

he forbids his children
from joining. His sister

fell during a riot twelve
years ago and never

woke up. I’m falling
slowly as raindrops

from a burning tree.