We wonder on a moonless nights, how did the hanging buoy look, when illuminated whitely in a milky gaze? How would that bird be outlined in silvery ink, spun sugar? Tut-tut-tut.
A world is around us, a geoid blanket of everything, and our island is in the middle. We lay in our beds, watching the little flame in the jar as it falls on the grey wall. We hear the crickets, a mistimed rooster, the rustle of a moth trapped in a plastic bag, and the silence of lives lived in private, behind closed doors and eyes.
Why does the hoanu tut, when stories are told of 1992 and undone shirt buttons and a nice breasted girls? What do they agree with; are they familiar with this clandestine concurrence?
Where is the sponge coral of hope tonight? Is it sleeping with old love, their breathing synchronized like twins in a womb? A child bride frowns in her sleep, somewhere in Bangladesh, and her braids are like oily ropes on a pillow that does not let her rest. Only we will know what links them, only we can detest what it insinuates.
Don’t agree with everything you frail wall-dweller, it makes you feeble, it makes you fickle. Ignore the expectant pauses in the maudlin and the mundane of the newly loving; find your flies and fight for yourself, don’t exist to fortify the sounds uttered by the frivolous fools farting in the bed.
Fa faa fi fee fu foo fe fey fo foah f
So tonight my sister will throw away the cardboard box, and the hulhangu rain will wash away my wishes, the ink staining the stones below. Oh earth, please eat my words, and feed them to the sexy worms in your depths, those that fuck you for food.
And then we laugh and it breaks the darkness like red and gold glitter that floats midair, and then falls lightly, disappearing as they mix with old footsteps of visitors long since gone. And then we laugh again and our hair is caught up in this imaginary confetti, like shimmering strings erupting from our scalp that were made of joy so pure, as though from the waters of the moon itself.