Hues, and then one
The sky split open
today, it was healing in reverse
like a throat closing up in defense
of a truth no one would’ve liked to hear.
In a rare show, the sky turned
amethyst, purple and aching,
a bruise that couldn’t foretell an end
to its aching. What is seeing
when the eyes are no good?
That summer it rained angsana seeds –
clenched fist, forced open – nobody imagined
they’d collect down in the drain
with such certainty, flushed into the unknown.
Certainty: Like knowing by heart
how much powder to add to milk, or
the tell-tale clang of metal on a cup.
A splash of ovaltine on the white
shirt. Stain a singular shade no different
than the mud in the Singapore river
emptying into a guarded bay.