blue mountain in one hand,
chinese jasmine the other. we learn
to unweave winter from growth. you
take the needles and turn them to 12,
and we unwind time – and we
un-wait beneath clocks on
expired mustard.
i wait to come home
to a house that we never built.

like mimosa, except ice cream
with orange juice. sticks to our hands
like dust to this city – a city built around
a steeple and a minaret. i wait for
your call for prayer, and i wait for
the bells to ring.
i wait to come home.

the supermarket clock
unfolds like a map
for cemeteries. your body,
a faded receipt in a manila folder – nook
in your waist an unpriced tombstone.
scar on my chin an expired
transaction. we trace our bigger coffins:
theatres, eateries with
subpar curries, boxes of cheap sushi,

i wait for a bench and i
wait beneath the clocks.

Benedicta J. Foo writes about lonely people and lonely places. Her work has been published in a number of Southeast Asian literary journals and anthologies; it has also won at the National Poetry Competition in Singapore.

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