Everything, first, is inflatable:
forearms, biceps, ego and amount of stress
required to develop an entire language revitalisation plan,
160-hour series of eight-module free adult classes, a national Festival, and
an internationally-recognised marriage to one heck of a sexy gay Malay man.
Go ahead; omit me from everything, then.
I’m not bothered; I’ll just go ahead and
rewrite the history and social studies textbooks in poetry, prose and plays that amend
all those little disconnections that we hope no one engendered,
which we hope were not playing pretend.
When you put air into it,
something should stretch frequently:
the skin, the muscles, the tones, the truth.
Tension, strain, maybe even evidence and proof
that you know what you’re doing.
After all, as Jinkx Monsoon
sang, it’s all about reciprocity, and who
is your Mama, really, because at this point I’m not very sure who you will choose
when it comes down to the real Permaisuri of this island, and what I regard as
a very, very, very good ruse.
It’s all about energy.
It’s all about why this is all still so hard
for you to let go of that sense of revenge
and accept that nothing will ever be the same again:
you taught the Dreamtiger of Singapore how to take his shirt off,
and how to say that his body really wants men
who know who, and what they are doing:
who know who, and what they are actually proving
to themselves, and to the person that they will end
up becoming.