Tag Archives: Ho Ren Chun

Lockdown

three haiku When the borders closed it broke my old addiction to self-importance. Families folded by an unseen affliction. Our inheritance. I fold all the shirts, move, silently, furniture to allow you to pray. Ho Ren Chun is a Singaporean-born … Continue reading

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Memory

He comes back on the wings of gloaming moth upon the bath, but too the smell of paint thinned; the hue of aged carpet. She holds the thought like years. Wrist of liver spots, a silver moth in the crescent’s … Continue reading

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Child

you turn your cold shoulder and I, always anxious, fish-marked, am condemned to swim, gasp in sin, on the edge of water’s sword, sliced thin, like the neck of the pool embraced by your unfair spell. The way you catch … Continue reading

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The Art of Disappearing

Every year, you took grandma’s funeral gown and thinned its silhouette in the sun, counting the stroke of the years. Who knows where your Girl or Boys will end up tomorrow. Even the old cinema has been scrapped, and shophouses … Continue reading

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