conversations at the bus stop
... each pendulum swing slicing time
Dedicated to every tired, worn-out parent who wishes their kids would just grow up already.
Try to explain to a three-year-old why her grandpa's in hospital by the grace of God and not lying my God it is hard both to explain high religion and base mortality shy of turning it into causality. We believe in God the Father Almighty Creator of mothers and fathers and sons and grand-daughters who… Continue reading Life support
at the children's section of the library you read six books to me, us both huddled on the floor, surrounded by other children, mothers, fathers also reading, jumping, running punctuated by the occasional scream. For a while I felt we were like everyone else; just another seven-year-old breathing life into words and his father also,… Continue reading Yesterday
grandpa was not richbut bestowed us a fortuneof sweets, chocolate coinsor twenty cents to buy our own.grandpa was not richbut gave us our first wheels,scavenged from spare partsracing corridors, pounding hearts.grandpa was not rich,but he made butter sugar dreamsandwiches, washed down ice creamsoda at a rental flat in Ghim Moh.grandpa was not rich,but he always… Continue reading ice cream soda dreams
They say you don't remember Anything before the age of four. Don't remember that thumb jammed in the door, Don't remember that tooth Chipped on the floor, Don't remember tantrums In the toy store, Don't remember your mom's Sleepless nights, Don't remember your dad's Tired sighs, Don't remember your brother's Protective lies. You won't remember… Continue reading To be three
In the dorm stairwell hung a public phone where each week I'd call home. Each call a litany of hellos and reports of health and weather, food and whether I had enough money as the phone burned pound coins per minute till I found international calling cards at the corner shop and talk became cheaper,… Continue reading land-line
"How long is the intermission?"
It collects in pockets, on the edge of photo frames, the sediment of sentimentality. It gathers in the stillness of breath waiting for your finger, to trace an outline. Cleaning is an exercise in utility, every obliteration a momentary rejuvenation time-travelling back to before we were old, to before there was just dust. Background:… Continue reading Tracing an outline