Cyril Wong

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Caving In, White, Salted Flesh
The only sound
He makes is the one he makes
With his fingers, snapping off
A pincer, boiled-red, shelled husk
1: 02am
I try to picture my parents in their musty bed, their bodies
fallen apart in sleep. Back then, I had to settle for the floor
I could still roll off from to slide down fantasies of leaving
school, retreating behind the desks of well-paying jobs,
Practical Aim
After great pain, what would the body
learn that it does not already know

of relief? When that fire-truck has raged
What death may be: a slow, close-to-weightless
tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning
slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low
growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to
The lovers wait to lose their balance. They would dive
gratefully into the half-dark, picking fingers, thighs, lips
and tumescent parts. But wait, let’s stick to beginnings.
Before a rustle in the chest, there were first meetings


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5/16/2021 7:17:24 AM #