because even immortal things die
when touched by love.1
Like a winter finger
down a wingless2 spine.
Still, Madame Butterfly,
the world3 is larger
because of the leaving.4
There is more to life5
than6 resurrection7.
[1] Bread. Ice. God. Tears.
Night lights. Morning sheets.
Family, again.
Lovers, always.
[2] Come in—broken
builders, this cage
will never keep this tremor still.
So what if her kiss
is in the shape of a scalpel? Lick
the blade—we’ll make a home
of this rubble.
[3] & who can promise the definition
of red? There is bleeding
because there is blood, and there is blood
because we are here. Swim, darling
this beating boat is hungry
for disaster.
[4] When she first asked if I loved her, I caved.
I don’t know if I love you
but every time I walk into the dining hall
I hope to find you sitting alone. Isn’t that enough?
What are you so afraid of?
she said, puddles in her arms.
[5] On the news, a city burning and she twirled
like every misplaced laughter. She looked at me with those feathered eyes and said
if you come any closer I’ll burn all your poems!
Without stopping, I kissed her, conscious
& illiterate.
[6] & I promise it’ll all be worth it. We don’t
have to figure it out. We’ll try again, because
feeling is also a form of filling.
Everything I ever loved
I lost. Still
[7] If loving ever becomes heretical, find me at the cross.
Choo En Ting is a Singaporean writer & editor based in Los Angeles. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Nashville Review, The Foundationalist, Kopi Break Poetry, and elsewhere. He was a finalist for USC’s Undergraduate Writers’ Conference and a scholarship holder from New York State Summer Writers Institute. He has received support from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. He is the founder and editor-in-chief for Burnings Magazine (burningsmagazine.com).