Tug of War

For the persecuted Muslims in Burma.

She hangs by her neck like the majestic colored

flag of her country. The sons beside her,

nine and five, upright and dead.

From afar, you can barely see her.

Against the brick red wall, she is but a speck of taint.

Should you go up close, she will tug on your heart strings.

The yellow floral dress brings you back to the

one you passed in the store. The lipstick used to

mask her pale kissables are the same shade as the one

in your purse. You see the resemblance.

She is as mother, as daughter, as friend, and as woman as you are,

but where you have pearls, she has rope.

You can see the bitter-sweet in her lifeless face,

the sadness endured of losing her boys accompanied

by their prompt reconciliation in the next cruel world.

In a short while, the birds will feast in celebration.

Then, she shall soar with them into the sun.


Agnes Lee
Topic: Strings (day 23)

Lazarus

I rose to the surface – head, full of hot air,

first, followed by my decaying body. Merciless

waves crash onto me but it is the crack of

dawn that rose my eyelids. I rub my eyes with

bloated hands, full of chipped nails, 8 fingers left.

They buried me once.

I had to claw my way through the God’s earth.

Fulfilling, but tiring nonetheless. My cold shadow

triumphantly displayed by the moon shine on

the ground, heated by the fires below.

Hear, with only one ear, the birds cheer as hope rose.

Headed home to find the Missus pale as

a ghost. I smiled as wholly as I could and blamed it

on the Haver*. His plans are going to get me

killed again.

When the black flag rose for the second

time, they threw me into the ocean, praying the

animals would do the job. But, the fishes that kept

my dead flesh company, they know of His spirit.

And Lazarus rises once more.

Agnes Lee

Topic: Rising (day 16)

* "Haver" is hebrew for the word friend.

Gaping heart

A tribute to my cousin, Chua Guo Wei (1993-2015).

When men of men ask of space

They talk the stars of stars that glow and shine

No. Space is where he used to place

Where now I cry, I weep myself blind

Where his smell still lingers on the sheets

Where his ghost still haunts my dreams alone

Where my regrets redden, blazes and heats

'Cause space is a cruel, gaping black hole

Thus with the devil, I’d readily sell

My soul and life and material things

For a ticket to the fires of hell

As Saint Peter sounds the judgement ring

If for a minute, you may rise

And watch me breathe my final sigh.

Agnes Lee

Topic: Space (day 10)

The Curse of Being

I love you, but I must kill you.

Your drunken delirium of colour will fade.
My gossamer touch, butterfly kisses,
fingerprints on your skin are your death:

Your life, for your art.

We are told, from our birth, that you, your kind, are prey.
Keep your distance, guard your heart; do you want it to break
every single time? Take them as liars, sweet ones, pretend
You do not see the ardour in their eyes, hearts razing to the ground
for you.
If you fall, you fall spiralling, and you will never hunt,
Never live again—
You will hate what you are.

Don't bend to them, to what they call love:
Be strong as steel,
Hard as rock.

But you, your soul singing through your script, move me;
lose me in our brief but fiery ceili.
Pure metal gives, igneous rock melts:
I, at the end, must face the fading of your haunting,
brilliant eyes,
Watch you wither like the cereus:
here tonight, and dead by dawn.

My greatest failure is love.

I looked back, I let my heart be swayed, moulded,
marked by your hand:
Never hunt, never live again

And once before so proudly fay
How gladly now would I burn my wings
set myself among mortal things
to love you yet another day.

{Claire}