With a gentle touch, you
Laid out the constellations of my
Vocabulary, delivered me from
Drum-kits to tennis-courts, and back again
Aching from old injury, kept calm in the
Thunderclaps of my infantile reluctance
To grow into you.
How can you still love me, the usurper
To your four-wheeled driver’s seat,
Cut from the heavenly template who art
And science bow down to?
Flying above you like night-time AA fire,
I can see your contrails in the mud,
Daring me to defy geometry-
You never laid a finger on
I did not know you, he who
Painted the kingdom with swirling glissandos
Plucked from the mouthpiece of God.
My words, they are of that font
Whereto you have returned, to bathe
Your soul in His waters, as others bathed
Soon I will meet you, but until then
I will remember your name, he whom age
Did not weary, soldier in the tall grass
Of the jungle into which we all were born;
And your story will, being His, be mine,
And I will say to the lost tribes of lost men,
“Now there was One who lived!”
On our first date at the
Bus-stop, do you remember how
Brazenly the wind stroked your
Shoulders, bare as
Confession? I wanted to
Cover you up but I didn’t dare,
Raw filaments of the heart not yet
Tied off by habit. Fingers take time
To learn to read the dark.
After your heart collapsed,
We all noticed a shift in your gravity.
It was like the stars unravelled,
One by one, making space for
Space. What happens to the light?
Dark matter clotted like scars.
Exploring your eyes, even time
Is crushed into Braille. Only God can
Reverse the laws of entropy.
Mark Yeow holds an Australian passport but now calls Singapore home. A former journalist, his creative writing has found favour (and publication) in QLRS, Voiceworks, Kitaab (forthcoming) and the Sydney Morning Herald.