The art of losing
—Queering Elizabeth Bishop
is not hard to master. First, lose
your favourite stuffed animal
when changing houses, again.
They said don’t make a fuss, we’ll just
buy another one (they never did).
Some things are not so easily replaced.
Lose something every day — drop coins
from the hole in your pocket, go hungry
at school. Then lose your appetite,
innocence, grow up too fast
and leave your childhood
home, for the first and last time.
Practise losing further, faster.
Watch planes take off the weight
of a future you never wanted. Trade
the ground for perpetual ocean
d r i f t i n g between islands
no longer yours.
I lost my father’s watch, the only thing left
of him. Accidentally deleted
his text messages; forgot his voice.
I find his only photo; lose it at sea.
They called me an absent-minded child
(maybe I lost my mind, too).
Next I lost my gender, dresses and tresses.
With this went my social circle, friends
calling me a name I no longer
remember. The girl they loved is dead
but they do not know how want
to grieve.
I lose them, too the natural order
of things. They confess dark secrets
just before leaving morphing
into the patriarchy perfect wife.
Skin tight / ivory dress / pretty porcelain / facechoked cloaked by lace, silent and waiting
for husbands to unwrap them
like an onion, and
Cut! to picture-perfect tears.
With me they leave their wounds and
discontent, therefore I too become
a dark thing they must lose
(I miss them / it is no longer a disaster)
The art of losing is not hard toMaster Savour the art of being alone.
As ships pass in the deep, dark sea —
feel the warmth of our sails touching
and set me on my way forward.
Fruits
Are an Asian love language
For parents who do not know
Words of affirmation
A kitchen table, filled
With foreign words; (I love you)
(I am sorry) (I am
proud / of you)
To be loved by an Asian mother
Is to decipher her secret code
Of fruits, of labour
Apple slices on a plate:
To keep the doctor away
A clinical kind of love
Mango: soft golden prize
For birthdays or perfect grades
(scrape / spoon of avocado)
Pear: to soothe a throat
That feels like broken glass
After another shouting match
An orange (peeled) says:
I am sorry, my hands
Are capable of love too
(rip / seed from flesh)
Mother, you do not understand
How fruit tastes like salvation
When you have only known thirst
Even Eve was seduced
By a simple apple, supple plums
Of a lover, sweet & forbidden
Vine of grapes, open mouth waiting
Wine drunk on a much older man
With a God complex
(child / leaving motherland)
Mother, you are
No longer around
To cut my fruits
I don’t know how to eat them
Whole
&
Because everything came in
s / l / i / c / e / s
I don’t know how to be loved
By an unbroken person
(empty house / a uterus)
Mother, our tongue
Holds no word for trauma
Only a debt of gratitude
For without the tree
There is no fruit
Exile
To be an exile, means
There was once a border
A line imagined, that kept you
Safe / inside / together
A place where you will never be alone
To be inside the border
The family, the nation
Is to be tamed
An unspoken contract
A white picket fence
But an exile is a wild thing
And wild things are capable
Of violence. We must banish
What we cannot understand
For our safety – is a public good
The greatest amount of what is
Good, for most people
Exile, then, has no expiry date
No promise of return, home –
A place revisited in dream,
Memory, illusion. Runway of road
And river, bones of your past life
Scattered like ash. The future waits
To be born outside the map
One last look, back. The flock
Follows you with their gaze
Spilling pity, apology
But they don’t understand
You are not something to be saved
Sometimes even the warmest nest
Can be a cage
