In Klungkung two boys squat on the ground
and hold between them a rooster, its neck
stretched taut, as one with a razor
carefully opens the throat, and they
let it go, flopping and flying,
its frantic song cut short
as the blood flows out in a quiet fire.
                                                   That other kingdom
where the black fires don’t burn. Where the dead
blaze within a wooden bull, and Rangda,
the moonfaced demon with curved, tusking teeth,
gives way to the good beast Barong, guardian
of the graveyard, as the kris dancers
roll over in the dirt, knives pressed
against their chests—unharmed, blessed.
                                                    Far up Mount Bratan
the women come down to bathe in the lake.
Their skin shines in the late sun, the water
flows over their breasts, and all over Bali
the night makes its music, a faint gamelan
through the rice fields. The giant sea-snake
coils tighter around the sea temple of Tanah Lot,
and the slow moon burns in its own pale flame.