At the Coffeeshop

Rats chatter and squeak,
dragging their hind legs
across mottled drain-grates
while moths powder the air.

Frightened, I let you kick them
without malice, as if you already
know of their imminent drowning,
bodies bubbling upwards.

In death, there is lightness.
For now, they stumble through
the dense night, condemned to rest
beneath my feet.

Eighteen

We learned to smoke
together, choking in sync
with car exhausts -

gnawing on Pall Malls,
our veins pulsing
Marlboro red.

We lay on brick
expelling smog:
singed our thumbs
to share a spark.

I quit last September,
my body outlawing cigarettes
like a respectable bar.

Your ash continues falling.

Airborne

I've hated airports for as long as I remember. To me, they smell of efficiency and musty carpets, last-minute gifts bought by forgetful travellers. When I dislike something, I normally try to avoid it, like peanuts. I recoil at the sight of peanut butter, or innocuous shells strewn on the ground like birdseed.

My father worked with Mitsubishi. He ironed his own suits and bought a variety of neckties. Because he flew to Japan regularly, my mother and I had to welcome him back every month. It wasn't so much a welcome as a solemn greeting. We stood beside excited Americans, expectant lovers, waving rhythmically; he would embrace us both without emotion.

He wouldn't call unless he had business matters to complain about. At first, I idolised his authoritative stride and designer glasses, lightweight luggage trailing behind like a dog. Then I grew old enough to use words like neglectful, estranged and absent. My mother kept silent, but expressed her agreement by having an affair with a postman.

Our airport trips never ceased. I was always bored, fiddling with the hem of my skirt, while my mother searched her bag for a mirror. I half-expected her to emanate wantonness, a careless carnality, but the postman appeared to have no discernible effect on her. She did not kiss my father on the cheek, and I searched his eyes for a hint of understanding. Nothing.

*

After a while, every passenger looks the same. I give them generic names; Melissa, Andrew, Susan. They slouch and snore in their chairs, clutching the complimentary cushions. Babies emit the same high-pitched cry, programmed to startle stewardesses as they walk down the aisle, and I shudder at their drooling mouths.

My trolley rolls steadily amidst turbulence; I pour out orange juice and coffee, the occasional beer. My leather shoes are giving me blisters, but I force a smile and politely ask a harried mother if she needs a drink, maybe some warm towels. Outside, clouds shape-shift, and snowflakes condense on the windows.

My only friend on this flight is Andrea. She is a part-time model and speaks with an Australian accent, even though she was born and raised in Singapore. Her fingernails are always perfectly manicured, and like me, she went to a good college. We sit beside each other during landing and take-off.

Men pick on her constantly, pressuring her for phone numbers, whispering lasciviously in her ear. Once, a middle-aged passenger seized her around the waist and refused to let go. She tried her best not to scream, and slowly pried his fingers off, one by one. I admire her calmness and resolve to act the same way, but the opportunity never rises.

*

During school holidays, we visited my father in his Tokyo apartment. It was fashionably cramped and harboured no trace of us. He favoured primary colours and sparse ornamentation; a modern vase, the occasional painting. His bedroom was an office, and I could tell our presence, a hint of forbidden leisure, irked him slightly.

Every day we were given crisp money, carefully folded in a milk-white envelope, to eat and make purchases. I was ambivalent towards the city, so beloved by other foreigners. Sushi gave us food poisoning; my mother managed to befriend the neighbours, two bespectacled, kindly sisters, who'd take us out regularly. Mostly, however, I was looking forward to our flight back home. I enjoyed the compact meals we were served, and learnt to love the engine's steady hum.

I was talked into being an air stewardess, even though I felt no affinity with the girls I'd met before. My category was obvious. I was tall and thin enough, with good posture and a face rendered acceptable by make-up. I didn't suffer from travel sickness of any sort; while my mother went pale and popped Dramamine throughout journeys, I was reading magazines and playing video games.

I went for the interviews alone and filled in application forms with cursive writing. Later, I received both a phone call and a letter. That was all. Before I realised it, I'd signed myself up for a lifetime of airports.

*

Airline staff undergo the same rigorous checks as passengers. Depending on the country, your bag may be forced open, emptied of its contents. Safety knows neither privacy, nor sentiment; I had a bottle of perfume confiscated once. I nearly burst into tears, as its absence meant the loss of a beloved morning ritual. I liked to towel-dry my hair, then spray the concentrated liquid onto my collarbones and the back of my knees.

These days, my passion lies in metal detectors. The sturdy plastic frames are a crucial checkpoint, a gateway to the heavens. While everyone locks their jewellery in portable boxes, I retain a thin silver necklace. The ensuing beep, an alarm to ignorant ears, seems like a greeting, an affirmation of my presence.

The security guard commands me to lift my arms and I eagerly obey, excited by her suspicion. She runs her sensor over my torso; I wonder if it picks up the rasp of my uniform, my childishly throbbing heart beneath. Nobody has touched me in years, the closest are these roving palms that stop short of my ankles.

I want more than an inspection. I want someone to pinch my sides and squeeze warmth into my chest. "Go," she says dismissively, and I dare not linger.

*

Eventually, my father returned with a Japanese girlfriend. Her name was Emiko and she was barely older than me. Unexpectedly, I liked her immediately; it was her lilting voice and plain, cheerful face. She had an English vocabulary of less than two hundred words. By then, my mother was done with the postman and had moved on to the grocer.

I still saw my father off, on my own; somehow, I felt it was my duty, and didn't expect him to return the favour. He was tired now, old, numbers and figures taking a toll on his appearance. Emiko helped him dye the grey streaks in his hair and ruined two expensive towels. "He'll be furious, won't he?" she said, wide-eyed and worried, fear halting her already awkward English.

He wasn't. He laughed and mussed up her ponytail, caught her in an embrace. She wriggled playfully and I left the room hastily, explaining I needed to cook dinner. Once I worked on the same flight as both of them. Emiko patted my arm whenever I walked past; not before long, I found them fast asleep, her head resting peacefully on his shoulder, their hands entwined.

My father was wearing a polo shirt for once, and the corners of his mouth curved upwards. His chest rose and fell contentedly, and I wanted to shout, why were you so cold, why did you never do that for us. Instead, I kept on rolling.

*

Somebody died on an aeroplane, once. She was an old lady whose liver spots betrayed the flawless translucency of her skin. While everyone else was bound for a popular holiday destination, having packed garish caps and honey-scented lotion, she was seeking critical medical treatment.

She stopped breathing before we were completely airborne. Her family sounded the alarm and we were forced to land, then bear witness to her limp, tube-invaded body being carried out. It seemed like a procession of sorts. The other passengers were sympathetic. Some prayed, murmuring amen under their breath; others wept. Still, after the announcement that our flight would be delayed by three hours, a flurry of impatient voices rose above the mourning.

It wasn't a big deal, I thought, as I patrolled the business-class aisles, catching Andrea's eye. People die all the time. People die in aeroplanes all the time. In the event of an accident, I wouldn't have the luxury of ruminating upon the complexities of my existence; no faces would flash across my mind. I would be aiding the dispatchment of life jackets, or monitoring the oxygen supply.

If I could choose, I'd prefer an explosion. I want to dissolve in a burst of brilliant flame, my ashes scattered into the ocean. My body, instantly reduced to carbon compounds, will not be excavated by experts. I'll never reach the airport, sealed and boxed; ready for collection like familiar baggage.

The Jerk's Tale

1.

She taught me how to kiss. I was fourteen with skinny legs and a palpitating heart, and my mouth tasted pungent for days.

The length of her skirts seemed to correspond with her passion. After she left, I wasn't surprised to learn she walked around naked. Or at least that's what the tabloids suggested. I quickly realised she was no Venus and proceeded to disavow her immediately, like a guilty apostle.

Still, I hoped she would eventually sleep with the Prime Minister. I'd always wanted to say I'd dated someone famous.

2.

She danced up to me at a party, knowing her hair was immaculate. She told me it was midnight, as if it made our encounter special. I hadn't touched human skin for months and my neck welcomed her warn breath, even if it reeked of vodka shots.

I woke up to a volley of missed calls and text messages. She claimed I was an enigma, and invited herself over to my apartment. I faced an ethical dilemma for days, on whether I should succumb to my libido. She mistook my silence for disinterest, and quietly slunk away.

I didn't mind. By then, I'd cultivated an interest in philosophy.

3.

She was the friend of a friend. I admired her breasts and gentle voice, and fell in love when I heard her call someone 'darling' on the phone. We were in the midst of a crowded shopping centre, but I felt as if an unholy light had descended upon her.

She also lived thousands of miles away. After a while, I no longer found it difficult to say goodbye. I discovered, on Valentine's Day, that her father owned five cars, she wore designer perfume, and that everyone secretly called us Lady and the Tramp.

“This is never going to work out,” I said to myself. In the end I just stopped writing.

4.

She was young, shrewd, and my first illicit affair. Her body was young and pert, and her nose perpetually lost in a book. I had an affinity for intellectual women and decided to engage her in conversation. Not before long, we were engaged in lingering embraces.

I told her I had a girlfriend, that I was sad and lonely, and belonged to her on alternate nights. I wrote a monologue designed to inform her I was a lying, cheating son-of-a-bitch, but in an attractive way. She listened carefully and saved my speech for future reference.

Years later, she told me she had a boyfriend. I felt a pang of irrational jealousy, and reminded myself he was uglier than me. Or so I assumed.


5.

She was blonde and blue-eyed, but less attractive than that description might suggest. I'd just moved to a new city, and decided that sex was a good way to occupy my spare time.

At first, she appeared to be a worthwhile investment. Aside from stripping ritualistically, we saw films and concerts together, holding hands like we were supposed to. Unfortunately, our interactions grew increasingly contrived, and in a fit of nonchalance, I said, "I only love you because you have curly hair and play the piano."

She broke up with me a week later. I went home and pondered what else to do on Wednesday night.

6.

She loves cats and watches football. She wears no make-up, but her lashes have their own shadow. I cannot keep my hands off her. Weekends are for television and grocery shopping, and I sleep on her shoulder in crowded trains. My right arm gets crushed between us, when we huddle together in bed.

She is the only girl in present tense.

Some days, inexplicably, my mind wanders away from bliss. I think about my past lovers, the objective, typewritten list I keep in my shirt pocket - torn, crumpled, still intact. In this desolate world, they never move on. They are complaining about me, debating my habits, mocking my nose. And I pray she never joins them.

(in revision/progress)

Our building awakes
shortly before lunchtime,
like a soporific volcano
roused from its latest siesta.

Earlier, we are waiting for coffee,
hands on our hips;
looking our computer screens
straight in the eye.

At its apogee, we fail to trust
our unsteady limbs, racing hearts.
Till turmoil erupts in the fish-tank,
water swaying apologetically.

We know to blame Richter scales,
disasters in a nearby country,
but find no scapegoat
for our reluctant panic.

We stand by the elevator, Michael and I,
while everybody races downstairs.
My knees ache and he doesn't care
if he dies.

We don't speak as the doors close on us,
our lives encased in metal and plywood;
ambivalent to the possibility
of not re-emerging.

(in revision/progress)

Sixty days since you broke the news,
and no reporters struggled to fix it.
That's sixty days of one headline
patterning my corneas --
two months of weathermen
predicting showers of new lovers
in the resigned face of thunderstorms.

I stopped reading football sections,
offended by players imitating embraces
on overexposed fields, creased, smiling.
Gave up economic reviews, calculating only loss.
Instead I bought a van; learned to drive,
tailed the paparazzi behind you.
As the air buzzed with my illiteracy,
I kept bundles of tabloids
only to stain my palms with ink
running them over your printed name.

August is marked by ice-melting heat and unexpected onslaughts of heavy rain. Pavements are interspersed with red urns, smoke riding the foreign wind. Dark ash gathers in my balcony, across my apartment floor, and crumbles between my lazy fingers.

Today I walked with my ex-girlfriend. She wore red sunglasses almost too wide for her face, a flowered dress. Her heels were blistered. I had no plasters, but my umbrella shielded her from the insistent drizzle. We talked all afternoon, pausing to sip our cheap, honeyed tea. She was the sort of girlfriend you spoke to, more than anything else. Till now I wonder how long we could have sustained our daily interactions, before we finally ran out of subjects to consider.

Halfway through, she informed me she was having dinner with a woman. One much like herself, with fair skin, who touched my hair constantly - and eventually moved to a distant country. In other words, another woman I used to call mine.

Her admission disturbed me profoundly. I tried to laugh it off, my voice gaining a newly discordant, overly effusive ring. "I won't if you don't want me to," she said, wide-eyed, sensing my obvious discomfort. But I told her to go ahead, hating myself all the while - I couldn't bring myself to command her otherwise.

Even so, I was bothered by the image of them seated at the same table, in what would probably be a reputable restaurant, paced by polite waiters. Maybe it was because the other ex-lover and I were no longer on speaking terms. Or perhaps I couldn't bear the thought of them laughing in unison, clinking glasses, exchanging ideas and suggestions I was no part of. Two people who were an inextricable part of my life at different times, who'd shared an experience they would not openly discuss.

I ended up seeing her off in a taxi. Again, it was her second-last day in Singapore, and she kissed me goodbye at the National Museum's whitewashed entrance, rain grazing our faces. My journey home was uneventful. I boarded the train alone, pushing and elbowing my way through the gathering crowd, steadying myself as the carriage lurched.

Later, as expected, I passed sombre strangers burning paper piece by piece - heads bent down in prayer for ghosts they still loved.

When I am lying under the covers, perspiring beneath my oversized shirt, the posters watch me intently. One of the reasons why I never wanted stuffed animals, even as a child. They take on sinister forms in the dark, heads misshapen, opaque eyes reflecting the faintest glimmer of light.

I try to keep my room bare, the limited furniture comfortably utilitarian. Walls a suitably masculine shade of dark blue, the colour I chose when I was eleven, loved football and hated girls. Jane's room is different. Nearly every inch of blank space is covered by stiff paper. She pulls them out of magazines, or buys them cheap. Matte, made-up faces staring down at us, some understanding, the rest malevolent. The rest she vandalises with sticks of thick eyeliner and blunt crayons. Jane doesn't compose poetry; she scribbles hatred.

DEATH, she writes. PAIN, underlined several times. It's not a complex kind of agony. Jane is a textbook case, a puerile problem. I walk in on her spelling out MURDER beside the wardrobe, tears streaming down her cheekbones. “I'm going to kill them,” she says, as I grip her wrist enough to hurt; her voice in equal parts furious and quiet. And in an empty corner, speckled with dust and ignorance, she scrawls my name.

Tonight I am with Jane, surrounded by suffocating warmth and impending nightmares, she in my arms. My left arm is falling asleep, even if the rest of me isn't. “We could do this,” she suggests sweetly, hot in my ear, and my eyes fly open to check she isn't serious. But her face is obscured by the flickering shadows, and there's only the penetrating glare of the posters stinging my skin.

*

My mother shouts my name and I cut myself shaving, tiny droplets of blood seeping through my white shirt. I hear her stamping up the stairs, trying to break in her new heels. She will wear them once; twice, wistfully, then never again. “Hurry up,” she shouts, and I curse and pick up the fallen razor.

My mother stopped being intimidating the day I grew taller than her. It wasn't an event but a belated revelation, when I realised I didn't have to endear myself to her to avoid slaps, the occasional beating. We stopped talking that very day. Today she is forty-five and attractive only in the fleeting moments before her wedding. Her dress trails along the floor, gathering dirt and stubbly hairs. She sweeps into the bathroom and abruptly there're two faces in the mirror, hers looking in, vigilantly searching for lines and irregularities. I stare at the floor, willing her not to touch me.

“I hope you don't mind,” she says, like she's asked me to share a toy with another child. “You'll get used to the new arrangement.” And in a more beseeching tone, “This is going to make me very happy. Don't you want to see me happy?”

Not overweight and sprawled in front of the television, game shows blaring, dreaming of men.

Our home is no longer ours, and neither are the mango trees. The unfamiliar stepsister will stay downstairs, away from the couple, near the balcony. My mother smiles and says Jane, like the name of an unborn baby, life still suspended in viscous fluid. Nice girl. Should, could be. Her name is Jane.

Nissan

Evenings like these, there's none of that rain
you translated onto paper, taped on my wall
before it dried up.

In its place, blunt grass and humidity;
a cup of tepid Milo, taking in
the heat of your hands, marks of our teeth.

Later, your mother's car. Japanese coat
of aluminium blue, fastest thing all year.
We wear the windows wound down,

you laughing over wind and traffic,
holding a boy against your ear.
His arrival is unexpected,

unlike the way I hum In My Life
to the rhythm of tarmac, or begin to understand
my own departure.

Now here's the door, waiting to be slammed.
My latest cardigan, buttons missing,
reluctantly taken.

Mail Order

After landing,
you walk down the aisle
with aching heels.
Your hands have palpated
the man who lurks
by the terminal.
Lip curled, he waits
belly-deep in sheets
your fists will memorise
with each spasmodic clutch,
your palms will learn
under gushing taps
where detergent corrodes
a new fortune.
You long for a dress
you may greet him in.

I Do Think

I do think of your lack of sleep,
your bedroom walls replaced
by pillars of peeling trees;
an aftermath of dead leaves, damp soil
imprinting the coarse uniform
you gradually learned to iron.

Less often, the afternoon
you knelt before me
half-dazed, while I held you
the same way you've cradled
a revolver, haltingly unwilling
and unready to fire.
How we no longer speak,
your heavy boots trampling
the miles of undergrowth between us.

About.

It’s a summer morning, more warm than hot. Outside, a couple is holding hands, and a group of acne-spotted youth ambles idly past. An arthritic old lady, shoulders obscured by a blue shawl, hobbles behind them. Natascha is not observing the sun’s rays, or eyeing the most comely of the boys – she’s given up. She is staring unblinkingly at the window, wondering if the grilles can slide apart soundlessly.

Her gaze shifts. He is washing last night’s dishes; droplets of water splash on his cotton shirt, land in tiny spheres. The citrus smell of detergent wafts past, and she wrinkles her nose. She hates him. “Give me a second,” he says, low voice barely audible above the running tap. “I’ll pour you cereal in an instant.” He scrubs another plate, this one cracked, with tiny floral patterns etched around it.

Wolfgang. It’d taken her ages to address him by his name. Earlier, he had been him. You. Bastard. She’d shouted obscenity after obscenity, abusing him the only way she could, calling him things she’d heard her sister yell at her good-for-nothing, money-laundering husband. She’d wanted to bruise and batter him without raising her fists.

To his credit, he’d never flinched or yelled back at her; only seemed mildly surprised at her vocabulary. Wolfgang doesn’t say much at all. He’s laconic in the worst sense, previously only responding by flinging her into the darkness – tears welling in her eyes as she hit the cellar floor – and turning the key with a click. To him, it was that simple. Oh, she hates Wolfgang, hates his dull clothes, his oddly awkward smile. Wolfgang. Gang of wolves, a poor excuse for a man. The only person she has spoken to for years.

Natascha hardly remembers the details of her capture, much less the faces of her family. After all, she has to remind herself over and over – a tuneless chant locked firmly in her head – that she has lived before him, and will continue to after. She must’ve kicked and screamed futilely, a sturdy ten-year-old imprisoned in his grasp, his normally hesitant gait far more strident than usual. Maybe he'd celebrated his success with a bottle of wine, his canine teeth clinking on the edge of the glass. The thought rocks her stomach like an unsteady boat, a queasy violence accumulating in her insides.

(It’s those moments when she temporarily ceases to view him as a criminal, her kidnapper, for God’s sake, that the anger rises in her like a child’s abandoned balloons. It’s when she sometimes forgets to, that she loathes him most.)

Still, he no longer confines her underground, but allows her to potter around the house, seeking out the limited entertainment it has to offer. They have regular meals together, and he assigns her simple household chores. She dares to sulk whilst sweeping the floor, running a threadbare cloth over the ancient mantelpiece. When he isn’t typing rhythmically at his computer or patiently tending the garden, he teaches her history and mathematics, coughing nervously like a new teacher.

Most of all, today is especially calm when compared against their recent argument in the car. “Someday I’m going to leave,” she’d said calmly. She’d acquired a new habit of biting her lip, gathering confidence from the tinge of pain; assurance that she was alive, younger and faster than he could hope to be. Worked her features into what she hoped was a threatening expression. Her face had grown thinner, skin stretching over cheekbones, and her frown felt different from usual. It felt lupine. “I’m going to leave, and tell the police what you’ve done to me. What you’re doing to me.”

“You couldn’t,” he’d retorted. But his fear had been unmistakable, sharp whiffs of it emerging beneath the cologne he’d painstakingly sprayed on earlier. “All it’ll take is a second before –“

Natascha had laughed cruelly, a harsh bark that cut him off mid-sentence. “You couldn’t rig up an explosive even if you read instructions off a manual. Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?” She’d made as if to fling open the door, but he'd caught her by the sleeve.

“Please,” he’d said unexpectedly, and she froze. Their eyes met, his pleading, hers emotionless, and suddenly he was embracing her, sprawled awkwardly across his seat. He buried his face in her shirt, the flannel boy’s shirt she’d made him buy her for Christmas. And Natascha hadn’t laid her arms around him, nor had she recoiled.

“Don’t – don’t go. Don’t run away,” he’d whispered, clutching, clutching, almost clawing. As if in silent rebellion, her fingers tapped restlessly on the worn leather upholstery, but her spine stayed rigid as a ruler. Nobody saw the man desperately holding a teenage girl who constantly scoured her surroundings for even more escape routes, as if by instinct.

This fresh memory, so different from the vague impressions he’s thoughtlessly left her with, makes her laugh. Natascha will continue grinning from ear-to-ear as long as his back remains turned – slouching carelessly, Wolfgang has started on the cutlery, seeing only stainless steel and his own formless reflection. She knows she’s won another victory, and it’s certainly won’t be the last. Her time will come soon enough, and so will his, inexorably. Just not yet.

Inlitterati Lumen Fidei

They print newspapers
that eagerly herald
the end of the world;
ladle out belief
like stale broth,
while my bowl overflows.

I smile, and scorn,
till I see him;
blood neglected by sculptors
who scrape beauty,
carve posture,
poise arms for flight -

- then I weep like Mary,
like Judas,
like countless others
who have wiped away faith
with a handkerchief;
left it to dry on their cheeks.

Not Dad

My father got into fights
when he was twenty;
torn shirts and muscles,
sunglasses to conceal
the broken vessels
lining his pale eyes.

Too many times
he spat out jagged teeth,
tasted blood and beer
while his knuckles stung
from the injury of another.

Years later, he threatened me
with the same. Don't you dare
call me Dad. You're lucky
I haven't broken your leg.

Maybe he loved us as savagely
as he threw punches,
or the way he watched television
in his unemployed days:

detached, puerilely amused,
fast asleep over the chatter
of a Chinese family serial.

QLRS

There is a man who lives under a bridge. It's better than it sounds. He rarely thinks about how he got there; wasn't his wife who threw him out, or his inability to pay the rent. He hated the flat, hated its low ceiling and lack of ventilation. The neighbours who nursed their troubles, quarrels forcing their way through thin walls.

He has a wooden table, cracked down the middle, damp at the sides. He tries to read the papers regularly, eyes darting over headlines, new words he makes up meanings for. Sits and sleeps on the ground, soft moss, no grass prickling his skin. The river beside him is only a river when rain falls, filling rapidly. He hears the water rush, like a distant sea, and turns his back to it. No one has stopped him yet.