Cyril Wong


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,
and coming home to a spacious apartment without cracks
in the ceiling that squinted through the blur of a spinning fan.
Above the bed hung a calendar from which father ripped
the months to scrawl 4D numbers across their backs,
digits he believe

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