Amos Tang
White Story

I step out of the white to recall a monsoon of you. I come back and lie over the white of your bedspread.

I drown memories through repetition, telling myself you are alright, retelling myself I am alright.

Some things take time to recover from, some things never.

I follow you to the end of the corridor. Your outline fades in soft-water focus.

Your fingers grow crane-beaked on my altar.


Drill a hole on departure as an ice cube:

Planes molded in bugged-eyed honeycombs, its incompleteness spills into being.

I look through the transparent: the fabric of a blue pasture no longer flaps up and down the window pane. Planes grow colder with age, which means paler and more brittle.

I hear stories, each departure my own, each arrives at the beginning of another open palm, gripping on to that glass void that was not.

My mind matchmakes planes into a honeycomb of endings, a bloody structure, plane crashes with no landings, and so on.

I find nothing to distract my ears.

Suite for Solo Guitar, No. 2

Painfully, she lies down over her breakup. She spreads her hair and self over her brain like a black sheet. I am at the centre of a room lined with mirrors holding a guitar with strings that cut into my fingers. She used to say I have a woman's slender fingers. Now I have to play her role in front of her; I am nervous. The puppeteer slices my heart open with six strings. She calls it dividing emotion. Who is the puppeteer? Who needs a breakup from a man she deems manipulative? Who is the writer? I am staring at her legs. I am watching them move up and down, sideways and then curl up as she goes into deeper sleep. I guess this is sexual. I am writing about her; she will use her own name to publish this when I leave. No, it is not that I am not proud of this, but pride makes my words lose the virginity they pretend to possess. This poem needs to take the shape of a woman. I see submersion: yellow fluids flow into her orifices and then, out. I imagine her eyes opening gently the next morning, her fingers in mine. She will turn to me and give me a smile to keep my fingers from slipping. This time, they will only tear her apart.