Poetry / September 2012 (Issue 18)


by May Dy

The season cannot make up its mind,
It lingered in monsoon without parting with the sun.
Rain fell from the glowing sky,
It reminded me of an impromptu trip: Siem Reap,
Where you said my fingers were like candlesticks,
They'd melt in the heat.
You weren't afraid to have your heart broken,
Mine had in its place a clock that turns
In between bones and nerves.
Behind yawning vines and wrung branches,
Mango-skinned youths walked on red dust,
Watching them I learned time
Did not promise closure, disappearance is
The afterthought of grief,
And love is a finely carved stone,
Sacred make-believe, immovable
Handmade for this clockwork heart.
At the temple, venerable king, his four faces reached
The heavens, reflected in a pond.
I thought I held ours in my empty hand,
It was only you and a passing cloud,   
Perhaps this is what being together means,
Creating life around ruins, from stones,
Subsistence by thought alone,
Completion is monumental.  
We walk in as fragments and halves in spite of ourselves.
Often I asked whether two sad people
could still be sad when they’re together.
I like to think I found the answer
In a new land, under strange weather.  
We slipped on damp earth,
Gone on a boat ride to the other side.
Palm on palm, lotus eye,
The pleasure is in the falling.
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