Get the cow off the ice
A giant cow lays
in the middle of a frozen lake,
back to the ice, limbs towards the sky
in solitude.
I was birthed beside it.
I tug, I push, I exhaust.
A mockery from You, perhaps,
the cow comes back
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow.
How foolish my pride
to blare my horn on that delicate ice
dreaming myself Hercules?
It is but a mirage: a million sparkles
dancing on the glossy ice,
blinding each stomp of my grandiose endeavour
only to vanish under the melancholic sky.
How hollow my vanity
to believe I could outdo Sisyphus?
It is but a dream my ancestors wove:
a façade of inevitable destructions
like that mushroom cloud
that golden halo
that light that’s never burned brighter.
Shockwaves of man-made wonders
in their palmless prayers
in the dying of that dazzling light,
consumed them.
Futile!
I realize the cracking of the sheet beneath my feet,
my attempts in vain. This thin, glassy skin of Yours
holds me no longer.
There I am,
back to the ice, limbs towards the sky, falling
into the abyss that is the lake
surrounded by Your glacial yet forgiving touch.
My lungs filled not with water,
but a promise that tomorrow will return
without the cow.
I bury you (from short story “The Perfect Man”)
I bury you in my mind
so my brain can encode every byte
of your hazel iris,
your cashmere cardigan,
and your sultry voice
into signals that will be stored
in my ever-lasting memory.
I bury you in my husband
so he can imitate every movement
of your untamed muscle twitches
as he falls asleep,
your aristocratic mannerism
as he adjusts his eyeglasses,
and your gentle touch
as he invites me to dance.
I buried you in my garden
so the soil could decompose every trace
of your animalistic musk,
your coarse, bearded face,
and the flesh that belonged to me
into nutrients that were absorbed
in my very own backyard.
I bury you in many different ways
to bring you back to life.
The conductor
He bore that sameness every stranger had.
A nine to five, a dream in mind, a few,
few digits in the bank. He dreamed of jazz:
the syncopations swinging til’ the two
notes clashed. A bang that woke him up, unclothed
on concrete sidewalk, signage begging “cash.”
A filthy scum!—their eyes haughtily spoke.
He screeched despair, not to them, rather at
this world that has abandoned him, this earth
that left him stray. He gripped his needle tight,
a coin-less bowl he spun. He lingered there,
directing traffic at the passersby.
In his own symphony, his arms swayed free,
a dream-come-true—conductor of the streets.
Do not take me into the winter night
I was a thriving hydrangea
in the falling amber, my blue dress
unmatched. Lovely lilac, be mine.
I told you a hundred times
I was not your lilac.
You never understood because
I couldn’t speak your tongue.
The scorching heat of the afternoon
pierced through my skin
yet no warmth reached me. Kneeling,
I begged for your gentle rain
a hundred times more.
You never understood because
I was your lilac.
I forgave you,
for your jolly monologues kept me
company in these hundred days of fall.
But I will go
before the first snow arrives,
before the nights drag long,
before our bitter-sweet memory
rids itself of the sweet.
Let my remains nourish your garden
for those who won’t flee.
