essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
But from time to time it does exist. Something like a stray lash under the eyelid
trying to catch its last breath.
at least the colour I’m told is
robin’s egg blue, like
boy-baby blankets, like
deep breaths of sunshine.
It’s these questions I have. (An astral whodunnit: a whydreamit).
They’re small animals
wriggling to get out
Just let us touch the crust, they say
feel it crackle
I know it’s over when I picture the train carriage
it’s an old-fashioned carriage with burgundy velvet seats
a little room in my memory.
You are sun-skinned, but my half
of the planet is tumbling into the dark.
Family is my way of honouring the Filipino spirit, where the bond of unity, the guidance of elders, and the hope carried by the younger generation come together to form a love that is simple, yet profound—one that transcends individuality and connects us all.
It is an old superstition.
The mirror, and the room
dark behind it but for the
flickering of a few fading
candles.
My memories can be quantified in cups of tea,
and meat pies filled perfectly, slumped against
a mountain of mash
Like thirst – a need to quench, slake, state:
first hearse, first coffin and pallbearing.
I become great at darts, a phenomenon
on dart circuits, earning enough from darts
to pay for lobster rolls
maybe they look down
at their bodies as they left them
in neat rows, heads of wheat
crackling green and gold
