SILENCE
Silence
Hollows the reed
For
The wind’s song
Silence
Tunes the heartstrings
For
The story
Silence
Readies the self
For
The embrace
RECONCILIATION
Our bruises
Red and purple
Black and brown
Forgotten
Forgiven
Forgiving
We run through green padi
Our cheeks meet
Pink and rosy
Under watchful clusters of dragon eyes
Our fire crackles
Orange and gold
AFTER LAST NIGHT
I'd sip some now!
Lingering Xinjiang Summer,
roses and raisins,
saffron
soaking
last night's tea
Should it matter?
Midnight flyers,
dawn crawlers
are drowning
Drunk in their share.
WOMEN IN MEN'S ROOMS
In my grandmother's house, we knew what was what and who belonged where.
The bedroom was my grandmother's. Although she shared it with my grandfather, the legal owner of the house, there were only two signs of his occupancy in the room. The first was a wooden clothes stand on which a freshly laundered bajut tutup was hung each day. The second was a commode which smelt faintly sour. The rest of the room was pure Mama - the large double bed dressed in monogrammed linen; the teak dressing table with tiered shelves, hinged side-panelled mirrors, and drawers filled with her kerosangs and what seemed like a life time's supply of Penang rice powder; the pervasive Mama smell of wintergreen and 4711 eau-de-cologne. Even the armoire contained no hint of my grandfather's occupancy. When one opened its doors too quickly, it was her collection of kebayas, sarongs and bead shoes that fell out. To this day, I have no idea where my grandfather kept his clothes.
Other areas belong to my grandmother were ...
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