The Ghost Writer Poem by Yeow Kai Chai

Suck in as the baby worms out of you,
clawing, hissing. Your limbs can't move, paralysed
by fear, dread, or a sick thrill. They turn blue,
part from body. Better soon than not; cauterise
so both of you could breathe. Gill, skin and sinew
duly replicated. Photosynthesised,
till both stare askance at each other:
Who else would love you, my monster, my lover?

Does one, ripening, supplant its own forebear?
In your eyes I see the answer I've uttered,
even if the signs - twin horns, nose flared -
are clear who will survive. Kicking, marimba
struck, a chord despite general disrepair…
Yes, we could double up, clap our flippers,
blow a fuse or two, trot for the gallery,
though one must choose, this or true savagery.

In the end, one lives as one image permits.
Wary of each other, crossing tapestry
stitched from spin, self-testimony or vomit.
Shacked up, each tenement remains jittery
as Silent Snuffer strikes in a whodunit.
What's that? Who's next? This intricate parquetry
does not squeak. Everyone is alive or not,
starting over, staying put, writing a plot.