Bangkok Stories, Part 3: The Mourning After

Confetti

The day before Chinese New Year
I keep finding pieces of confetti in my room,
it's odd because I don't remember
being near any celebrations, any place
I could have taken a bit of festivity
with me; this year
I could celebrate,
no more black clothes,
black memories, I'm allowed
to wear bright reds and yellows,
and be loud, joyous, cheering—
but do I want to be those things?
Do I want to let go of the austerity,
the silence we shared in those last moments,
those last few minutes in that hospice room
I listened to you breathe.



Princess

in the mirror
before makeup,
notice

your black hair,
thin, sharp eyebrows,
and the gentlest square cheekbones;
you've matured—grown
as if your father
had mold the beauty of your face
with his own
soft, boney fingers,
your smile
by his suit's warmest greys;

today
in your deep brown eyes
he breathes again
life—the sweetest cigarette breath

that leads you, white
and softly,
down the aisle.



Theoretrical

Energy cannot be created
or destroyed—

conversion, potential to kinetic
and everything else;
we learned that in physics class,
high school, before that

I learned from you
food loses its goodness when
its heat escapes from the dinner table
while I stared at my computer screen. I
thought of that today
sitting at a cafe watching
my iced coffee condensate, almost
sweating at the irony of steam
rising from the ice in the cup;
evaporation, heat moving upwards or
goodness, escaping the static cold—

Your body, the white sheets,
the rose they put on your chest, already cold
when I arrived an hour after you died;
your sublimation was
impatient, unlike you.

Energy cannot be created
or destroyed—

I love to think about the invisible,
energies, matters that surround us
in total disregard, stoicism?

How much insensitivity
can matter tolerate,

think about it, if
this world came from an explosion
of invisible matter then
didn't we all—humans so involved with
feelings, emotions,
begin as these same stoic particles
in sub-atomic void? So

when will your energies, heat,
goodness, decide they've had enough
silence. You are out there,
waiting, because you exist now
only as patience; particular,
insensitive to the cold, heat, joy, pain, tears;

How long, before you come back
to me?



One year later

One year later
I look up
at my white textured ceiling,
the unevenness of the paint,
the soft shadow masonry–
I see the history
of your hands.

One year later
I stare at the setting sun,
the orange, the reds;
no words, just colour trusting
its last warmth on my body,
like the last time
I held your face.

One year later
I see the unfolded laundry
sitting on my bed,
patiently waiting
through the night,
as you did
for me.

One year later,
I still see you in everything.



The Towel

The towel you used
has been hanging on my balcony
since yesterday
morning, after you left.

I’m reluctant
to take it back inside, clean it,
fold it, put it away—no I can’t
just destroy the memory of your body
wrapped in white
fabric substance-less in the wind;

lacking.