I’ve never wanted someone so badly;
I’ve never needed someone to bury me so bravely
in his arms, and let me smell
what it smells like
to be something more
than a fucking, washed-up tragedy.
(Odd. That stereotype has, historically
been applied to the Kristang and the Eurasians. But I guess this is what the Greeks meant
when they talked about ontological
irony.)
I’ve never known desire
so satiated.
I’ve never known a Singaporean scholar
so useful and so individuated.
I’ve never known a Kristang man-woman
so beautiful, and so radiant
in their desire to fall into my arms, over and over again.
I wish I were as pretty as Shelob, or Ungoliant;
it would make this all the easier to win.
I don’t understand why Kevin Martens doesn’t want me.
I don’t understand why he doesn’t want to serve his country;
haven’t I done enough
to apologise by offering him
a better, more perfect destiny?
Haven’t I done enough
to move mountains, part the oceans—
resettle entire communities?
I know I am out of options. I know that the Tree of Life
frowns down upon me, compassionately.
But I want to believe
that mercy is a pipe-dream,
and that fearlessness
is envy, and jealousy,
and a sense that this will always be my history.
I grasp at straws.
I look at that Dreamtiger’s beautiful paws
and I open my own ravenous jaws
and leap.