still want to be here / impressions / dissonance
still want to be here
I mistake the hot breath of saunas
for my mother’s hand. other times it’s the nursing home,
the old hag pissing herself
only inches away from the potty, thinking the floor
a wasteland. saliva stretches like cobwebs
from my retainer whenever remembrance
rolls around. I’m humping the diesel pump,
Nowell’s Shell Service, futility,
cul-de-sac job… the only way I can say
I want to love you, too without a word.
the bartender asks me why
I say the doorbell sounds furious. shrug,
blame everything on those Bourbons. under the fresco,
a man’s curious fingers canter on my back
while I wonder why the souvenir shop across the street
has a bite as sweet as rejection draping
over the balustrade. I show the tape
of my father boxing himself, each blow to the cheek
loving as boiling water; play last September’s recording
of mother lulling you’re dirtying the blanket,
fucking eejit, her shadow resting
on the shoulders of every stranger. hands sitting
where they don’t belong. to pay tribute she smears friction
onto a desolate slide. Forever and Always. and I tumble down,
the naked skin on my calf screaming
at something I can’t see, triggering the bawl.
the years behind us
sanction what lies ahead; I’m telling you I can never
hear a young laugh the same way again.
impressions
a girl’s bare heart
knocks on the road not taken. her jaws slap a redwood desk
like the silk of letters wrapping themselves
around the grey flavour of carrion.
but she will learn to call it sacrifice, or to swallow,
thinking it the chauffeur of saving; either way to never
be caught rubbing its back between thighs
when the door creaks. the grown man says
a poem holds nothing in its palms
except a mirage, the kind that unfastens us
from our coin-licking necks, only to be whipped
by a minister. behind the metro, vagrants chant
gojiguts. bananaclipper. no more funny words,
says the English teacher who scribbles over
a stanza overwhelmed with black blood
from the same old heart that hits
the ceiling fan twice a day. blue may grow a fresh arm
if she says so, hemp-green bills will stretch
on her count of three… that is what the mezzo reiterates,
viciously yanking the curtains closed.
when the hour kicks its feet up on banter,
she will let her hair down for her hair-tie
to sew the door shut, so they can stay inside to be gutted
with pages that slip to Idlewild,
pages that leave like tired slugs
once the bell breaks. I ask my father
if the alphabet should stay a mudskipper
panting in its briefcase. he will nod madly,
and let me down, head galloping, hands
stroking a safe, as if it were a question
of whether he’d lift his singlet
to reveal the graduate oath on his breast. a glass of water
distorts his eyesight. depending on where you lay,
it can also be the hot-bath of a mother’s livid whining
about how her son’s organs
have been eaten by language, how he’s given up
chewing at the fox-fur of FedEx, Ford factory, Nestle;
whinnying like a nervous reporter
while abandoned spines twist
like wrung clothes in the backdrop… we remain
on a lonely pier, where faces become
one of Monet’s lilies—nearly diminished,
almost part of something.
dissonance
trust me when I say
I am not you. I do not know who you are,
your likes & dislikes, why you care
about this-that, him-her,
why you cried for hours on end
over at Krakow, burying yourself
in the chest of a room I can’t recall,
why you spread your lips as leeway
for the con man. if you can believe it,
I call them stranger & nothing else.
notice how warm the word feels
in your mouth. a month hurries out the gate
faster than you’d ever expect. so I’m still looking
for your ruined godmother, but I do know
that her hands taste like December set on fire,
like the daylight that left as soon as he did,
his absence holding the world hostage.
are you disappointed? at how
I still remember the waves
of his Chicano jaw. sometimes
your roommates are reflected
in my windshield. I’ve lost the montage.
I’ve lost the love-knot they tied
around your pelvis. I say things to myself
you should never hear. remember your ear
is a ticket to the world until
you cut it off. but look, this is the face
weary with distance. these are the folds
you’ll want to clamp your fist down onto.
I know you do. one day we will both
be fifty. you must be shocked,
but don’t worry — now is not the time
to grieve. one day you will understand
how the sundial warps everything,
filling the cracks on your slippers,
its soles growing thicker
day by day, while they ask me why
my heels snap at a cold room
so rudely. I still don’t know the answer.
trust me when I say
you are nothing but the child
that needs to stay asleep, for when you wake
you’ll realize that nothing bothered
to stay for you,
wait for me.
Aneska Tan is a student from Singapore who likes to write when she is not fighting her way through her studies. Her work appears in Rust + Moth and Riggwelter, among other journals. She hopes to own a writing hut someday, and in the after-hours you’ll usually find her wallowing in her inability to leave the house.