My Rant by Joey Ng
Your ways of thinking,
Convoluted with
Correctness and pride
Fail to disguise
Where bullshit resides.
Indolent and spoiled
In every instance,
Indulged to the brim
With each and every whim.
A license for no one.
Selfish in nature
Your regard is rare,
Reserved for leisure
And other affairs.
Still you speak righteously
With conviction and smug
With good fortune.
Wait 'til that river runs dry;
Not a drop for your mug.
A conflict from beginnings
That meld in the mind,
Never so important
Around the second time.
___________________________________________________
BY CATHY SONG
The mornings are his,
blue and white
like the tablecloth at
breakfast.
He’s happy in the
house,
a sweep of the spoon
brings the birds under
his chair.
He sings and the
dishes disappear.
Or holding a crayon
like a candle,
he draws a circle.
It is his hundredth
dragonfly.
Calling for more
paper,
this one is red-winged
and like the others,
he wills it to fly,
simply
by the unformed curve
of his signature.
Waterwings he calls
them,
the floats I strap to
his arms.
I wear an apron of
concern,
sweep the morning of
birds.
To the water he
returns,
plunging where it’s
cold,
moving and squealing
into sunlight.
The water from here
seems flecked with gold.
I watch the circles
his small body makes
fan and ripple,
disperse like an echo
into the sum of water,
light and air.
His imprint on the
water
has but a brief
lifespan,
the flicker of a
dragonfly’s delicate wing.
This is sadness, I
tell myself,
the morning he chooses
to leave his wings behind,
because he will not
remember
that he and beauty
were aligned,
skimming across the
water, nearly airborne,
on his first solo
flight.
I’ll write “how he
could not
contain his delight.”
At the other end,
in another time frame,
he waits for me—
having already
outdistanced this body,
the one that slipped
from me like a fish,
floating, free of
itself.
No comments:
Post a Comment