on the remains of an escalatorpast mountains of bookslike miniature templesat the end of this alley waitssoto padang and terong baladocan’t think of anything elsethis is lunchnot an adventure filled withdangers, this is leavinga cubicle that keeps you feeling safeafter paydayyou count the change in your purse and you pausemaybe sometimes you can take your familyto a country filled with coloursand butterflies everywherebut now it’s time to returnpast rows of cassette tapes, vinyl records,artefacts of the past that neverbring you anywherebut tothe exit.step again on the remains of the escalator and you will emergefrom the belly of this mall like a babyyour afterbirth sticking fast to you. more afterbirths stuckin all the mallsin this city,in restaurants,street stalls,angkot,cabs,mobile phones,night markets,laptops,everything that shinesyou don’t know anymoreif you’re a wooden puppet ora baby octopus, the smell ofdeep fried fritters or cigarette smoke, you’re cursedwith options, which oneis fantasy and whichare things that are unimportantwhich one is you? sweat runs down the back of your neckfills up your walletsometimes you try to catchtears that fallwithout warning.your coin purse is full,bursting with the tinklingof tiny coins.you rub your tired facewith unscented wipes and the damp on your skinis soon gone under the air conditionersof your uber x.hades is your driver for tonight.you watch people with afterbirths stuck to their bodiesthey’re everywhere, they look like they’re putting up art installations,pacing back and forth on their way to a placeno one knowswhat complications they’re creating,and you remember your own daughter yesterdayher wide smiles as she read your poemand said:my doll is not missing, she’s gonewith a group of tourists to visit an invisible country.your daughter is an expertat drawing grief.