tilting our plates to catch the light, cyril wong
I am afraid to die. You lie.
The soup is ready. The rain
stops. We have come to this
without grief, but also
without hope. Admit it:
without hope. But I hold you
in the crib of my arms.
Streetlamps open their eyes,
drawn into our tragic
love story. I am afraid
to let you go. Unlike you,
I am not lying; I am
not that strong.
Our food is now cold.
But still we eat it
and become accustomed
to a taste of nothing
in our mouths, nothing
which fills us so we may
never go hungry.
We wash our plates,
tilting them to catch
the light. In bed, we turn
to remember each other’s
faces before merging
with shadows, our minds
falling backwards into night.
| |
“Sometimes I wished you’d find-“
“Stop. I am happy.”
“Have you never considered-:
“No. Never.”
| |
“Look, I made you laugh again.”
“Maybe it was the right time to laugh.”
“Maybe there is no such thing.”
“Yes, we should laugh whenever we like.”