I write because I read. I read because I write.
Here. Let’s share
my mitten-hand.
I’m from the tropics—
tower of sea and sand.
I know. I know
you understand.
Here. Let’s share
my early coffee cup,
blessed with its own
shadow-thin cloud.
No, darling,
don’t look up.
Here. Come here.
My wrapped arms
warm and raw.
Melt with me before
this dear mountain thaws.
—
sing to me Polaris’ song
steady, constant of the north.
show my midnight lullaby
softly rocking, back and forth.
see the map on my pillow
salted as sunbathing seas.
shoo my fears, shoo them for me.
—
once smooth as petals
will shrink into a crumpled
autumn leaf, waiting
for annual earth’s melting to
fertilise spring’s kids.
—
earth’s coating on late autumn (a
yard of naked trees open for the
early frost) not death but a promise
stamped on your irises’ bows.
—
rolled sunset crawls
to kiss whale’s home,
persimmon spilled.
wilted leaves arch
towards foliage tomb,
autumn fulfilled.
cold keys hang
void of fingers, warm,
bite the seed of hope
will it burst some
bitter crumb?
consider the possibility
of wings once
our breaths
succumb
—
i wish i’ve puppy-paws
to dig through the muck
of this year.
i wish i’ve puppy-eyes
to bend my
Master’s will.
i wish i’ve a puppy-nose
to smell happiness
from a mile.
i wish i need not
to wish for a real,
real smile.
—
there is a painting
outside my window,
hell magneting
the day sun’s glow.
stain of last night
rests on my pillow—
my unraveling
with moonlight’s bow.
feels a few feet from
my reach, the sky,
if only dusk can
give me wings to fly.
—
if moon is made of cheese
i will call it mine,
every night, i’ll sink my teeth
to its gooey-divine.
if moon is made of cheese
i’ll swim in pools of wine,
to drown the emptiness
of our mattressed-shrine.
if moon is made of cheese
i’ll drink its yellow shine,
to cheer the longing of
my autumn, drooping spine.
if moon is made of cheese
i will call it mine,
for you are too far away
tonight, my darling sun.
—
BEFORE
voice can be
from the rolling of your
fearless tongue or from
the scribbling of your
shaky fingers. neither
is greater, as long
as they are yours.
yours. yours. from
the ripples of your
chest, their waves
can stir one heart
to move from the
dark west to a
brighter south.
because your
words are power.
you are.
AFTER
voice rolls like a red-
carpet tongue, plants
hope like a green-
thumbed gardener.
neither is greater, as
long as they are yours.
yours. yours. chest
ripples. stirring boats
of breath away from
the midnight west
towards the dawning
south. your words
are power. you are.
—
rain, they say, is the
heaven pouring
blessings. when i
was a child, it means
flood, tickling my
chubby ankles, choking
my father’s chest
once. it means
waiting for free
food rations and escaped
shrimps from spilling
ponds. it is a
memorised, annual
struggle. a sweet,
repeating chapter
of our wooden,
dining table (too
small to sit eight
mouths) but was
never empty. not
even once.
—
