Cyril Wong (b. 1977)
We are in the same car, two men
making out in a deserted alleyway.
As we grope and cling, the car
rolls, we fail to care, half-suspecting
it is our kiss propelling the vehicle
out onto the street. Behind you,
I see my parents on the sidewalk
fainting comically to the ground
at the sight of us, a wrist to the brow.
I want to laugh but I cannot do so
with my tongue in your mouth.
The car seems to know exactly
where to go. More people seem to
drop as we drive by: Father Arro
who told me God existed by virtue
of trees and the sun's rise and fall,
every teacher who favoured us
for busting our asses to please them,
the rest of your family who have
yet to learn about us. They collapse
in spite of themselves. Buildings
are starting to sway too as we pass.
Soon the Parliament House is
caving unto itself. I watch
the Merlion wobble and topple
into the river with an unimpressive
splash. Churches, flats, and malls
shudder to rubble in our wake.
Somehow we are still kissing,
you with your eyes closed, mine
wide open, as our ride takes us
to a shore and straight into the sea.
We are unable to stop kissing,
as waves gorge on our car,
darting fishes or an occasional
squid bouncing off the windshield.
We stop when we reach a world
where no person or building may
fall at the spectacle of our embrace.
I think we are almost there. Already,
the car is filling with water, warm
as saliva in a lover's mouth. We
soar across a galaxy of plankton
undistracted by our kiss, water
rising intimately around our necks,
our destination so close we can
taste the ocean on our lips.
by Cyril Wong
from oneiros (2010)