SPIRITUAL AUTOPSY
The tea light shimmers in an oval hole
of the burner, ylang ylang bubble-
talks with eucalyptus in a tactile
language. I drag my crumbled
body onto the bed, centered in a room
of dim sanity and softening sounds of running
streams. I am ready for my spiritual autopsy.
a heated pebble on my solar-plexus,
beside a few ice cold Peridots
and Sodalites. The Arctic and Equator
intersect at my navel button.
temples. Gaia Shekhinah Nama Om,
she hums, waggling her white quartz
above my head and drawing alien
symbols.
coming into a flat green line
like deadliness
on a heart monitor. Then
a bright white light descends.
The line extends
to a milky white macadam,
on which a dervish invents his
a frog hops near his feet.
Determined, he begins his infinite walk.
over on the massage bed. My head
ventures into the cavern-like
hole, which limits my vision to purely
downwards. For the first time, my eyes
are at peace
with seeing
less than they can.
CHINESE GHOST FESTIVAL
This night every year, she honors the homeless spirits
by folding silver and golden papers into ingots.
Her fingers twist and press, giving each sycee a sweet belly.
Making hell money is national art.
It is getting colder. A few serf-looking white shadows
slaver over the food she has prepared: roasted baby pigs,
grilled goose thighs, Chinese white buns and pink cakes.
She wonders if her mother is among them.
Some less hungry ones glare at the fine couture
by the road. They need some new clothes: floral qipao,
formal black hats and monogrammed handbags.
She throws a match into a small rusted tank,
inside which the money and clothes burn in fierce yellow.
Then she bawls – Receive. Receive. Receive. A few
stray dogs awake and howl.
Smoke arises and reaches streetlamps. The road
becomes bleary amber. It reminds her of an old photo
in which her mother seldom smiles.
She watches everything become ash.
Those dogs cautiously near the buffet
on the curb. She knows it is time for the spirits to eat
and collect their tepid parcels. She remembers
not to look back, or else they will be seen
and lose their way home.
NICHOLAS YB WONG is the winner of Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition and a nominee for Best of the Net 2010 and Best of Web 2011 Anthology. His poetry is forthcoming in Saltwater Quarterly, Assaracus: Journal of Gay Poetry, Prime Number Magazine, The View from Here, Third Wednesday and the Sentinel Champion Series. He is currently an MFA Candidate at the City University of Hong Kong. Visit him at http://nicholasybwong.weebly.com
The tea light shimmers in an oval hole
of the burner, ylang ylang bubble-
talks with eucalyptus in a tactile
language. I drag my crumbled
body onto the bed, centered in a room
of dim sanity and softening sounds of running
streams. I am ready for my spiritual autopsy.
The masseur,
whose face hidden in shade, putsa heated pebble on my solar-plexus,
beside a few ice cold Peridots
and Sodalites. The Arctic and Equator
intersect at my navel button.
Her ambidextrous fingers,
thinned with ease, press against my thickenedtemples. Gaia Shekhinah Nama Om,
she hums, waggling her white quartz
above my head and drawing alien
symbols.
I close
my eyes. I see thoughtscoming into a flat green line
like deadliness
on a heart monitor. Then
a bright white light descends.
The line extends
to a milky white macadam,
on which a dervish invents his
free jaunt.
A bird lands on his shoulder,a frog hops near his feet.
Determined, he begins his infinite walk.
Gaia Shekhinah Nama Om
the masseur hums again. I turnover on the massage bed. My head
ventures into the cavern-like
hole, which limits my vision to purely
downwards. For the first time, my eyes
are at peace
with seeing
less than they can.
CHINESE GHOST FESTIVAL
This night every year, she honors the homeless spirits
by folding silver and golden papers into ingots.
Her fingers twist and press, giving each sycee a sweet belly.
Making hell money is national art.
It is getting colder. A few serf-looking white shadows
slaver over the food she has prepared: roasted baby pigs,
grilled goose thighs, Chinese white buns and pink cakes.
She wonders if her mother is among them.
Some less hungry ones glare at the fine couture
by the road. They need some new clothes: floral qipao,
formal black hats and monogrammed handbags.
She throws a match into a small rusted tank,
inside which the money and clothes burn in fierce yellow.
Then she bawls – Receive. Receive. Receive. A few
stray dogs awake and howl.
Smoke arises and reaches streetlamps. The road
becomes bleary amber. It reminds her of an old photo
in which her mother seldom smiles.
She watches everything become ash.
Those dogs cautiously near the buffet
on the curb. She knows it is time for the spirits to eat
and collect their tepid parcels. She remembers
not to look back, or else they will be seen
and lose their way home.
NICHOLAS YB WONG is the winner of Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition and a nominee for Best of the Net 2010 and Best of Web 2011 Anthology. His poetry is forthcoming in Saltwater Quarterly, Assaracus: Journal of Gay Poetry, Prime Number Magazine, The View from Here, Third Wednesday and the Sentinel Champion Series. He is currently an MFA Candidate at the City University of Hong Kong. Visit him at http://nicholasybwong.weebly.com
