So cold, living in this steam, watching a wagon go by every once in a while.
© Stephanie Pui-Mun Law
3 PM in the afternoon,
The cold and merciless winds bruise my naked skin through slivers.
As I watch ants on the floor carry morsels of sugar
Or something small and white – I really didn’t care.
The floor freezes beneath me as I crash down and close my eyes
To stare at the skies above – filled with electricity.
So much lightening. Not fighting anymore,
I just watch.
Somewhere in the distance, rice planters sing choruses
To amuse each other, to enliven a boring landscape
Of fall colours and clouds leaked by jets.
Every sinful sinew of mine shakes, wanting to storm into the green meadow
And embrace them. Yet I lay there,
Feeling these antithesised rags dimple the earth
The spasmic fabric giving way to my bare skin,
From this little celebration of fury.
Hoards of water wash my naked body, my shut eyes,
And the tremble off to the floor
As I lay there, entangled in the coarse hair of a mop. I open my eyes,
And the rice planters don’t sing anymore, the ants trot around me,
And all I see is this steam that I’m blessed with.
The walls are beige, the cell phone still in pieces scattered all over in a mess.
This mess that might leave a stain, this grace – this anger,
This marijuana my fears feed on.
