Passover (Sook Ching)
I rescue ye ye like all the other
boys: sprint by the cover of
night, and then jump into the
pits, rummaging beneath
the bodies till I find the ones who
knew to fall in ramrod straight,
broken cheekbones and shut eyes
slowing their breaths to cicada
humming. I find them dreaming beneath
their friends, skin shredded to ribbons
beneath wetness and canopy, boneshard
powdering faces before their funerals.
Before I drag ye ye out I muddy his toes
with the balls of my feet, mark him as
the survivor of an awful grace, clean
off the evidence of my mission field.
I want to paint now the way he lays still
as a Fan Ho object, half his ribcage out
of frame, the sloping of his shoulders
hidden by porcelain sockets like wires.
In the dark humidity neither of us
are free; I place my ear to the
sound of his breath, press my face
to his till neither of us can see.
Multi-ethnic church in
only later did I realise
the picture we presented,
accents mingling like lunch
after service, cultures folded
over skins. We pray,
sing in right angle shadows,
creeks of light forked
by potted ferns.