Coarse grays disguised
even in speech, even
between men, mother
and the womb of law.
I step inside the hollow
of a dream or a skin
that belongs to my
country. The domestic
possessive a crime
of truth. I too have
hammered this fraud.
I too am guilty until
proof of burden.
The American man
beside me plants a
kiss on my birthmark
when I cry. I rivered
and root. He rubs at
the cane marks I
inherited and asks
if it hurts, how he
can help me bloom.
Like a small iron
nail riveted to the
scar of a scrap metal
piece coming clean
with the compress,
the daily traffic, the
rainfall from a coarse
gray sky, I brace for
the caving in, as
in buckling, as in a
collapsing building
or a bulb that gives
birth to glass. I was
four when a pastor
dressed me in water
and doused my blood
with blessing. Holy
country and family.
Holy ghost of a life
-line and a life I
learned to want.
I groped at the out
-line of stained
glass after, surrendered
to the company of skin
my mother sealed me
with. This Singaporean
son, this impenetrable
land. The dried tissue
and shrapnel clotting
in my throat. When he
kisses, I remember
he is white. When he
passes me a tamarind
to dilute the pain, I
get down on my knees.
Acidic, this mouthful
of color, how I snap
the ovaries open from
its sickle-celled moon.
I bite until the brown
coagulates. I bite until
the rust reunites
with
my blood and all that
remains is this coarse
gray husk, this
dying
star. When I leave,
I leave fully dressed,
fiddling with the
duty
of a ring, this country
and chromosome I am
a culprit to. I am
gentle
with the key, slipping
back into the familiar
warmth of a bedside
lamp. I am no nucleus
or bomb. I am only
a father who escaped
one atom into another.