the stains of past picnics
live upon your salmon shirts
wine rusts on the occasional sea salt
for when your skin feels more at
home under the moon
you see i
have built houses in your yolky lapel since
birth but
theo, you
remove your arms around
peachy lonely women and desolate
strangers – how many more till
they become effective
medication, and how many
more nights with your hands
wrapped around crushed ivory
intimacy, necks smothered with dead
mythologies, with courage only
to face imaginary companions
and their naked bellies, full of
life, of ever-giving mirth and
misery, courage only to write
without letting your words
wander, and how much longer
until you finally taste milk
and honey, until rosé
stops being

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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