The SWAMP REVIEW
I would rather starve to death
by Fawn Lau
Mommy stirs the rice in the old brass pot!
Shifting, shifting the pudgy porridge
until the metal erodes
and even the dust withers.
Worn hands washing…
The young bowl chimes
with each delicious scoop gently dropped in!
It smells so sweet!
but there is no abundance of it.
If I were to eat it,
I could only weep with such suffocating warmth.
I can’t hold the spoon still.
In a week's time, a year's difference,
She has prepared for me a feast!
The table’s end isn’t so distant anymore.
Each bowl, the timer ticks.
Still,
I would rather starve to death.
ACRID SAINT
by Fawn Lau
Clad in pure ivory
in silk frills, in neat bows, with an innocent gleam
mumbling hymns while she weeps.
Her dress bleeds her sorrow
while rouge stains the fragrant lilies sown by her despair.
Demonic preacher
who bellows hollow vows
and disgraces his savior.
In tongue, his sins encrypted.
Blasphemy.
Baptize.
Dunk until he drowns.
The sabbath, in union, find her peace
through his suffering.
The sanctified robes veil her truth.
The choir sings tales of old
and the acrid saint
his abhorrent sins increase tenfold.
Drove Culling
by Fawn Lau
To them, division is sacred.
We are but lambs, naked and naive.
Shiver in fear, for the shepherd is near.
Conceal your recalcitrance.
With haste, bow your heads.
Wolf upon us who wears our hide.
We mourn what will be tomorrow's grievance.
Revolt!
Silenced no longer!
Those who speak the loudest will see not another day!
Quick, before they pull the trigger.
Quick, before they vilify us.
Quick, before they kill our vigor.
Insurrection!
Dead is the pacifist.
Dead are the children.
Dead are our families.
Alive is the warmonger who has exhausted peace.
Insurrection!
One by one, we are bled dry!
As sweet as you are
by Fawn Lau
Say, have you ever had the nectar of honeysuckle?
Honey fresh from the home?
If you have, you would know just how sweet you are.
You, sweet as broken dates, unlike the rotten tobacco you smoke.
Nonetheless, you have trapped me, cursed me entirely,
both essence and mind.
It irks me how you push your glasses up
so matter-of-factly when you’re stating something correct,
but when you lose yourself in words and pages, I tend to forget my annoyance anyhow.
Because you’re smart and talented and
bow your cello every evening.
I’ll listen and imbibe, your tender musicality
that is not the instrument you play
but the softness of your voice.
Because you are awkward with your ill-timed quips
and annoying when you cannot be wrong in any way.
I’ll dance with you anyways, and write how I feel for you
until ink runs scarce
and the leaves of many trees have withered,
every morning, on the bench, swinging my legs,
waiting for you to pass.