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  • Four Poems
  • Cyril Wong (bio)

a kind of hush

Silent again, we begin to hearnoises in our heads, swelling

to overwhelm the sound of ourbreathing. If we are silent for

long enough, something would surfacefrom under the wind-troubled

faces of murky pondsour minds have become.

All at once, ripples would fleein a singular, outward direction—

these questions of guilt or blame.Then what comes up for air

would be a different quietwe keep drowning, pinning it

underwater in our pride untilits legs stop kicking.

Different because we may hearthe mirroring of fear and

a time-sharpened dependencywithin it. Such a quiet we only

hear when we do not hear:waking together, every meal, [End Page 95]

sharing the same cab home.Listen. Listen. My hand swims

into the bay area of your hand.If we are silent for long enough,

we could start over.

hotel

In the cupboard, bare hangers are skeletonsfor future selves; a complimentary bathrobewaits like a new and better, even purer, skin;fresh pillows are the unformed bodiesof lovers yet to be born; bedroom slippersbecome footwear for shuffling upan airy flight of stairs free of this life.Open the fridge, lean past the overpricedchocolate and the smugly settled soft drinks,and tune in to voices from the god-realm,where beings reminisce, not unfondly, aboutpast desires and mistaken attachments.On the bed, our bodies stay unentwinedin rest because love is in a different roomin a faraway country; but beneath us,cowering children press ears to the floor,absorbing the footfalls of fathers retreating,heads lowered in shame or shaking with disgust;these trembling versions of us reachfor each other now, smaller hands taking hold.In reality, the air-con sighs as discreetlyas possible; behind translucent curtains, nightslowly lifts; nobody expects the morningto be spectacular; although my eyes arereluctant to close, still hungry for the ever-new;while another stranger beside me sleeps and sleeps.

landing

What death may be: a slow, close-to-weightlesstilt, like a burgeoning foetus turningslightly in the womb. The engine starts a lowgrowl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to [End Page 96] land, to devour the space between itsfalling body and the ground, followed bythe slow lick of its wheels against the runway’sbelly: pressing down, then skating forward,only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,and the plane makes a soundlike the hugest sigh of relief.

The seat-belt sign blinks off for the final time.We rise up from our seats like soulsfrom bodies, leaving bulky hand luggagein the overhead compartments, thenbegin a tense line down the aisle, awkwardlysmiling at each other, remaining few minutesalive with all kinds of ambivalences,or simply relief at having arrived, at long last,in that no-time zone of a countrywithout a name except the ones we give it;weeping, laughing, both at once.

cigarette

The redundancy of languagein a budget hotel, where muchcarries on behind us on the bedwe lean against, nakedon the floor. Offering to sharea cigarette, you play metechno remixes on your phone,the beats barely eclipsinga rough choir of moans andheavy breathing that, for now,excludes us. Smoke curlsaround our heads like unravellingnecklaces of unfinished thought.We exhale more of itbefore the last song is overand nod to ascend again,ready to insert ourselves backinto the chorus of bodiesbuilding to that unsurprising end;last wisps of smoke stubbornlydecorating the air; our cigaretteleft to expire on the lip of an ashtray. [End Page 97]

Cyril Wong

Cyril Wong is a poet and fiction writer. His poetry collections include Unmarked Treasure and Tilting Our Plates to Catch the Light. His poems have been anthologized in Language for a New Century and Chinese Erotic Poems. He is a recipient of the National Arts Council’s Young Artist Award for Literature and the Singapore Literature Prize.

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