in the wake of his fading 

a sachet of Singapore laksa curry paste in the

fridge I should have seen it coming:  

the spilling beneath cold produce, the flaccid

surplus myself to blame:  

beside him, an abundance bound to be rendered finite 

only once the word aloud from my lips: lak‧sa where

the tongue coils round before the release of spicy

sand, neon dreams in passing, a vague promise of

love staked, washed ashore 

love like a plummet, for he said: 

fear is quintessential to my people, and you remind me of 

shadow play watching at Shantang, menaces held between

your desk lamp and your body, bleating masses ravaging a

black-throated tit 

perhaps if I perch on his bones I can come to see that

marred joys are inherited from each departure laksa,

kingdom of sunset coconut floods, marine cosmogony slabs

of fishcake gingerly prodded with chopsticks, thick heap of

noodles laced with searing sambal  I rub my dirty heels

against his forehead: 

smooth ivory humming a saga of underground forgiveness