POETRY

Born this Way

By

I am using both of them on him at the same time and he is moaning and shit and my arms are aching and not just my arms but my fingers from gripping and twisting the lubed-up things and I imagine in some funny way I am trying and failing and trying and failing to nail him with rubber dildoes to the headboard against which his head keeps pounding like a wild fist on a door and when it is finished I climb politely off the bed then rush off to wash my hands in the bathroom sink but when I step back into the room he is still naked and wearing the most ridiculous wig asking if I can take a picture of him against the pale orange glow creeping in from the living room and what can I do but say sure, no problem then no I’m in no hurry to go thinking as I pick up his camera phone that he looks like a younger George Lam from those Guinness Stout commercials but without the moustache and maybe when he was younger and busy doing porn but now he is raising his finger to his mouth as if he wants anyone watching to understand he is on the brink of some epiphany and asking me to press click to stick him to that image of himself and since I really do not want him to look mad and ugly and alone I keep holding the camera saying this way and that or this way is better and not that and still cannot stop him from coming out like a steroid-junkie corpse-bride decomposing in the half-dark yet afterwards when he studies the picture I have taken and takes out his reading glasses for a better look he nods and keeps on nodding with satisfaction which almost makes me want to hug him or at least grab his shoulder that instant if it were not for the stink of poppers mixed with a whiff of fresh blood dancing down his legs that stops me from reaching forward and making no difference in the end.

Cyril Wong (1977) is the author of nine collections of poetry in Singapore. Internationally, his poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, Fulcrum, Cider Press Review and Asheville Poetry Review. He received the Singapore Literature Prize in his country and has been a featured poet at the Edinburgh International Book Festival and the Hong Kong International Literary Festival; and is the founder of SOFTBLOW, an online international poetry journal.His Still Flight (2005) was first staged as a one-woman monologue in English.

I am using both of them on him at the same time and he is moaning and shit and my arms are aching and not just my arms but my fingers from gripping and twisting the lubed-up things and I imagine in some funny way I am trying and failing and trying and failing to nail him with rubber dildoes to the headboard against that his head keeps pounding like a wild fist on a door and when it is finished I climb politely off the bed then rush off to wash my hands in the bathroom sink but when I step back into the room he is still naked and wearing the most ridiculous wig asking if I can take a picture of him against the pale orange glow creeping in from the living room…