That Everything You Chose Was A Mistake

Fear is ending up as you:
potato chips crusting your fingers
as you regale us with tales of the time
you spent flying with gryphons,
of your twenty-three inch waist,
twenty-three also at your own wedding
where you carried lilies, auguring your own
future. For years your body grew bulbous,
fruiting. After a while, it just grew.
When I find myself spinning my yarns,
I shudder, snip the threads. It is so easy to slip
into you. Fear is that there is such a thing
as fate, as red threads, as karmic parallels.
Needles and knives sliding under skin,
choking down the hundred and thirteenth pill,
I gasp awake at the little nightmares,
watch other women with their husbands
slung over their arms like handbags.
At least they knew how to stop at two.

Prompt: Write a poem expressing something you’ve always wanted to say to someone, but couldn’t to their face.

That Everything You Chose Was A Mistake

Strange Tales From A Singaporean’s Bedroom

1.
The monk told him to give his wife realgar wine to force the snake demoness to reveal her true form. When her last breath sputters in her lungs, she turns white but does not grow scales. He never finds the monk again.
2.
Four years after their exile from each other, the Cowherd tells the Weaving Maid that they must let go. If a day in heaven is a year on earth he will be dead in two months. Their children have long outgrown the baskets he carried them with when he chased her across the sky. He has new aches and scars she does not know. When he turns to go, the bridge of magpies dip under his weight for the first time. For years after, the clouds she weaves hang low in the sky, the colour of a bruise.

Continue reading “Strange Tales From A Singaporean’s Bedroom”

Strange Tales From A Singaporean’s Bedroom

Even Heaven Needs Colour

The cowherd prepares a picnic of the weaver girl’s favourite foods and takes them up the magpie bridge. As always, he gives her a crown of aster flowers he has woven himself, the violently coloured petals a shock against her dark head and pastel clothing. Her delight in receiving them are always the the same as the first time, on a summer evening by a lake. In heaven there are only peonies and lotus flowers, profusions of pale heads nodding obediently in gentle breezes, while the lady and gentlemen deities stroll, feasting on peaches. He can hear their genteel laughter trickle down to the Milky Way, and imagine all-too-easily their white hands and soft skin. His own has toughened into leather. Every one of his nails is cracked, and the dirt under them will not go no matter how hard he scrubs. This morning, he found a strand of white hair on his head. He wonders for how much longer they will be able to keep up these meetings, and can almost see the Queen Mother’s satisfied smirk. As though she can hear his thoughts, the weaver girl tilts his face down toward her, takes his hand and squeezes hard. He can feel the callouses on her palms. When he kisses her, he tastes the peach juice dripping from her lips, and feels the weight of the years lift.

Prompt: Write a pastoral poem that is also a poem of protest.

#EisnerBonus: Do not use language that potentially undermines the authority and legitimacy of a government and its public institutions.
Even Heaven Needs Colour