MR.

By NICHOLAS YB WONG

 

He taught me about empires, got spotted

in a ferry leaning almost too close to a man

in the same tee. People like us traveled a lot,

 

often with grist to unravel the abutments of risky

fabric, practiced the Barbarian Invasion, fought

from a hetero shore to the less hetero soil.

 

It was science when a boat floated, so was

it when one sank, mass increased,

buoyancy gave in. His body knew it,

 

his liver a budded rival of his own

cells, pushing down the declivity every

historically healthy bit of him. I wished

 

the harbor wafts gentled his sallow skin

despite the waves and noisy seagulls.

My fault of smattering when Reformation

 

began, what was reformed. Of finding radio-

therapy more theatrical than Marie Antoinette.

He said his speech was unclear now, ball

 

point pens feckless, upside down in a mug,

unpaired. History not a mistake repeating but

a red smudgy rabbit stamp I once had for

 

recounting facts on time and exactly as he said.

The way he wrote Renaissance on the board was

so neat. I almost saw a straight line beneath.

 

 

Nicholas YB Wong received his MFA at the City University of Hong Kong and is a finalist of New Letters Poetry Award.

[Click here to purchase your copy of Issue 07]

MR.

Related Posts

Image of an orange cupped in a hand

May 2023 Poetry Feature: New Poems by Our Contributors

TIMOTHY DONNELLY
Thorn-blossom! Tender thing, prone to solitude / like yours truly, don’t get it twisted if I reach out my hand— / it isn’t to pluck you, who are my beacon down this path, but a gesture / of acknowledgment common among my kind. / When the lukewarm breezes nod off

Red Lanterns in Night Sky

On Wariness

MYRONN HARDY
There is rhythm on the pavement. / There is rhythm in small / apartment rooms. / I’m over slicing tomatoes. / I’m over drinking wine. / I’m performing as not to be / deformed     as not / to show what I shouldn’t. / I don’t want to feel everything.

Image of two blank canvases on a white wall

Nina and Frida Enter the Chat

FELICE BELLE
these biddies with their deadbolt backs/ take naps / while i construct/ canvas from corset cast / art does not wait until you are well / what they did not understand—the training was classical / chopin, motherfuckers/ carry on like she some backwater bluesy / least common denominator