The Verse @theverse-tembusu - Tumblr Blog

Missing

He go to school. Never come back. I make police report. Newspaper, Crime Watch. They even put his picture, He and the other boy, On poster, with reward From fast-food restaurant. I ask from the RC man: Can I have it from the Lift lobby noticeboard. He give me and also say sorry. I have it in my bedroom. Every morning with half- Open eyes I remind myself My son: the one on the left. Got calls come in once. Say they saw him in Penang, selling videos. Or in Bangkok, begging. Child prostitute they say. Sometimes no voice at all. Hello? Hello? Who is this? I am your son. Then hang up. So many things to remember. His school is still there. I walk to it sometimes; Pretend I am him. Praying come kidnap me Take me away now. Got one artist try to draw My son's grown-up face. I ask him draw one For every year. He say cannot. Got one time I was on TV. Crying, with schoolbag on my lap. Keep saying, good boy, always help me Do housework. Now I say let me Do the housework. Let me wake up To the mess he left behind.

By Alfian Sa'at

MY BELLY My belly is a flowerpot. I sit here, cradling it between my arms and it nestles in the crooks of my elbows. But I don’t like the way the flower looks, distended and bulging. It is too big. I could wrap it up or cut a slit, drain the extra sap from it — but that would be cheating. They tell me to take the flower pot and run until the head, too heavy, drops off — petal by red petal. Still everyday I water this flower and I can’t stop. — from Bursting Seams by Jollin Tan

#Jollin Tan

#Robert Yeo

Grandmother Thng

You died when I was six. My peashoot mind Broke into an empty flat. I had To force the tears, so great was my disbelief; So great my disbelief, so sternly firm The ghastly coffin in the void-deck where I dropped a magic pen into the drain And the waters carried it away. I spurned Your instructing comfort, soaking in my pain. Your block's lifts always were in disrepair, Dim, slow, a stink of stale urine in it. You soothed me with a Milo and Marie Biscuits. Your lips were full, too large, I thought, For you to have been beautiful. You hit Me lightly for my impudence, and brought Red chillies from the kitchen. You loved me. Most days we would wade through Chinatown. I nibbled on a salted cabbage leaf Fresh from the brine, moving from stall to stall, Sometimes losing you; you were so round, Your arm was like a leg of lamb, and all Your samfoos were unsleeved. It was a relief To sit down in a dim sum restaurant And roll the tea-cups in the scalding water. Or else we stopped beside the bamboo hag With her pots of soup, I ready to dissent If you asked me to drink a soup of gag Of herbs or baby chick knob-winged at slaughter. Some days we turned the corner to Temple Street, The asphalt squeaking with dirty water, the crowd Less hoar-haired. There you bought at sundries shops Your favorite sng buay, which I couldn't eat Because it was too sour. A few more stops For medicine-hall powder or a loud Exchange of words with a friend, in which you would lay Your hand on me and claim me, “Ngor ge shuin”; “Waah, lang jai” your friend would rejoin; and back Up Neil Road we would trot. You used to say First what a good boy I was, then switch tack Bluntly, and though I made a face like a prune, I would tread on your back to firmly massage You. As you slept I crawled beneath your bed, Trawling spiderwebs or playing at tents, And rolled on it when you got up, or barraged It with my weight, picking up the scent Of Tiger Balm. Some days I quietly read An Enid Blyton, or admired my aunt's Books, a Lady Chatterley's Lover chief of them. The woman on the Emma cover had Your face: a plumpish one, with brows that danced, And lines I would love to write, which greyly bred. In the evening from work my parents came. And after all these greening years I find That I am no less salted by my grief, Incapable of love still, heartworn, dead.

By Toh Hsien Min

#Teo Hsien Min