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Fathers
My mum told him you need to come this way again
To see your grandchildren
Despite how much your old bones ache. I see how much smaller
He is in comparison to
The one I was afraid of angering way back when, how then and now have conspired
To make his arms softer
No more iron but formless as sand, moving under a fingertip
I remember the snap and crack
Of my heart in august
When he practised a foreign nice to meet you on the bus ride over
The hands holding the paper were
Not quite steady, and he drank too much and grasped
My father in law by the upper arms in the way that men do when they are afraid to let go.
Time is both hurting and helping us;
I can’t remember the last time he raised his voice at me, only the
Wet choke of pride over
Computer Connections that hum with words that are chewed over, but in the end
Swallowed down. I wish I could say out loud
I love you – you have made me this way. I love you, you still have a duty to me
It is you I will hold onto, in church
Until I accept the protection of another man.
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Broken & Whole
Why is it I find it easier to describe
Feeling broken, rather than
Feeling whole?
How much simpler it seems to
Write about falling apart. When my centre cannot hold
When my words get to work
Translating the splits and hollows into print
How easy it is to be angry and sad and
Fucked up. How the words crowd and buzz like overeager bees like needles scratched on pint glasses Like ice freezing tears like cut flesh
They are wine-thick and dripping
Prickling, pushing themselves into being. I know how to do broken.
How much more difficult it is to
Grasp, without sounding trite
The way that
All my past loves feel like forgeries
The way that the soft curve of nights spent together piles upon me but is weightless
The way that morning light is written in the sparkling tones of a romantic comedy, rather than
With ominous deep-sea echoes
When I was coloured blue
the story spewed itself until I was replete and the words rolled together as thunder
But now – how exquisitely difficult it is to voice
The steady equilibrium of today it is grey, but tomorrow you will make it golden
Today I am temporarily unhappy, but tomorrow
You will make me less so
How clumsy my tongue is with
These wholesome stories. How clumsy and euphoric it is to be put together
How clumsy and euphoric it is to be reassembled
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Punchbag
I am thinking of funding my own private study
into the percentages of women who,
after being sexually assaulted
take up martial arts.
Every time the bones in my ankles
twinge and protest from their times spent in unfamiliar places
or my wrists crack when rotated
or my knuckles become clenched shells and the balls of my feet are ready –
the uppercut crunches like a ball in a socket
like a fist in the stomach like the
string of his teeth in my pocket until
I rattle and dance like a box full of presents, yes
breathe through my nose – I am ready
take hold of my wrists – I am ready
make a leash of my hair – I am ready
I am ready I am ready come and get me I am ready I am
mottle-throated, copper-coated
lying bloated
in a Seoul motel room
with a black tongue, foreign press and no I.D
I am relieved that, in hindsight
I didn’t yet know
how to fight.
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Your Face is Not Enough
A long time ago
My mother told me someone
Will fall in love with your mind,
and not the way you look. I was
Struck dumb by the second
Part as if, in a sweeping cruel caress she had
– rightly – proclaimed never would I
Have one of those God-drawn faces, faces so biting and virile
They made man and woman alike
Look back.
I have lost track
Of the times I have tightly bound up
And squeezed my heart into
A compartment too small; thinking
As women do, that I am not enough.
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Nineteen
Nineteen
He is golden-haired
unaware of his own strength
lisping, deep-voiced and beautiful. He brought out in me
both mother and lover, counsellor
last night
fingers wrapped around a cigarette,
he looked at me – no, around me
avoiding my eye as if he’d never seen a naked woman before
I bowed, pressed the fruit of my lips to the steel wire flex in his arms
inhaled hot flesh, pornography, confusion
he is used to
nasty, nameless stuff played by nasty, nameless people
in his single bed, dreaming in silicon tits and money shots,
what’s left of his brain paints patterns on sheets his mother
launders with care, for him.
He told me I could hit him,spit on him. Fast forward and
he is regretting his words
watching as they send him sprawling,so nervous that my bed shakes beneath his trembling
as I kiss his fingers, one by one
he is
what you’d generously call
a ‘troubled youth’. Two suspensions
angry, isolated Asian parents
only child
occasional wearer of women’s underwear and desperately ashamed of everything. In almost perfect
Chinese English, he tells me his depravity – possibly gay –penchant for stealing. Breaking and entering.I am soft and stern with him,
cradling his honesty and feeling tenderly disposed to this little boy lost.
Naked against me,he is breathless, mumbles– I don’t know what to do or say – burning with embarrassment, made ofmuscle and iron
I stroke his spine until he relaxes, becomes feline and exhales
I say – think of me as a friend…without the clothes – and
his nineteen year old smile ignites me like a warm blue wave tasting sand. Later, between
the teeth nipping rosebud blooms at the base of my throat and the
solitary re-remembering,
rosy and alone
he apologises. Blushes. Asks for a glass of water, but not before
carefully pulling his clothes back on –
brave enough to stroke, upon leaving,
the flush that decorates my breast bone
and stumbling – again so shy and raw with a new memory – he tells me that I look so pretty
I close the doorand lean against it, likea third-rate rom-com heroine
mid-swoon
and laugh to myself,but quietly.
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Make Believe Dog
I want a dog.
My colleague asked “what kind of dog?” and I said
any dog. The dog’s shape is not important,
what’s important is that he is a warm, breathing idea. When my chest constricts with anxiety and the next few days spool like black thread
tangling between my fingers like knots in tiny silver chains
I unpick the fear with the thought of my dog. My village house
on far-out Yuen Long soil, surrounded by a green that sneaks through sunlit windows
few english translations and locals who will stare for years but reluctantly come round to the idea of me in a wide-brimmed hat walking my nondescript dog.
This is a warm picture. I hold it in reverie, like a talisman
til it is as smooth as a worrystone
I turn it over between my fingers at night,
quietly moved by the slow rhythms of my partner’s breathing.
When I am angry I throw that dream away as if fury could keep it
quelled in the darkness of a well a thousand feet deep but
with each soft kiss that tastes like sleep and unbrushed teeth I feel
my wishing pebble back and the hot make-believe rasp of my unnamed dog butting the foot of the bed.
In the morning
dark outside and in my designated smart clothes
sleepy with the illicit
extra ten minutes we say we won’t spend but find impossible to resist
somewhere near my apartment a baby cries like a broken thing
and I want to cry too
because I feel like a broken thing.
But I hold on to the shadow
of warm bodies in the morning, Yuen Long and I love you and
my make believe dog.
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2016
The whole world’s free falling, lurching into crisis but he smothers all my sisters talk
With talk and talk of Isis.
I don’t like this – this silence of a female mouthpiece
I can barely breathe my voice is now so quiet
From a guy who thinks half the voting population looks better on its knees
Who thinks that crying RIGGED will detract from grabbing pussies
I said to my mother oh brother that’s the choice they makin
I hear they plan on taking their rifles to the polling station
Aggravating an already fucked up situation
To intimidate, castrate
chastise a nation so inwardly imploding it’s the world’s fixation
it’s amazing
To watch them generating this he said she said shark tank
Even debates no longer sacred as the right prowls among the left
And we’re bereft of all our betterness
We invested blood in bitterness and
Let’s get in the thick of this – ain’t noone proud to witness this
Bloodletting is still bloodletting
You better read Stephen king’s the dead zone
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The Broken Ships
Two ships were visible against the wet horizon. He anchorless, she rudderless
drifting in a sea of eloquent sadness so vast it seemed colourless.
One ship succumbed to the greyness pouring into her galley, water leaking
through portholes pecked by birds she thought her friends turned traitorous
letting herself turn inwards into the weight of it all.
And so began the torturous and unknown sink beneath the glass shore.
The other broken ship was made more broken by her absence.
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Baggage
About me: I go away on holiday
Independently
And Emotionally all the shit I carry with me always with me always weighing down so inconveniently
Is left behind, like the water bottles they ban on the way to planes.
Firm-voiced and uniformed guidance of
Leave your hazards here, go forth asunder under the protective arm of
Air-wherever-you-want-to-be
Close your passport on your worries.
If we’re allowed only
7kg of emotional, social, hyperthetical, election-presidential
Related tensions
How much lighter all our heads would be how much lighter all those planes would be how much better it would be
To hang out in the sky indefinitely
And never claim back our baggage.
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