 |  |  |  |
The Things We Lose In Fire
Nicole Wong
I come to you at the distant sounds of summer. The
Lion Rock Tunnel opens at twilight, hard and square
against the blooming trees. The lights speed a silent
convergence. I get a glimpse of your hand on the brake:
fine, strong knuckles, a man's hand.
On the open road comes a familiar sign. You take a
right turn.
***
The Tolo Highway gleams under the clear sky. Your
wavy hair in my face, everywhere coarse and fragrant and
tasting of metal. Your skin tanned, grainy still; your flesh
softer. The white walls are humming. Someone else was
here last night and it's not so strange I'm here tonight.
***
The saxophone welled up a siren call. We rocked
gently past old auto repair shops and broken houses in Sai
Kung. A housewife was putting laundry on the clothesline
outside her front door. A pregnant dog was licking herself
free, abandoned on the pavement.
David Sylvian met the ghosts of his life when he
thought he had broken all the doors. I preferred his vocal
for Japan to his solo works. They're layered emotions
hiding behind synthesizers, I said.
He's an emotional coward, and that speaks to me, you
said.
***
Shapes of sakura from a past life you lived. A
street-lamp shines dimly outside a luxurious house in
Kowloon Tong. A guitar glows cold, neon red, static on
stage. A sterile world; it beckons in the distance.
I never liked your works.
***
You talk about money: the multi-million dollar deal
with a telecom firm, the house you plan to buy and
renovate, the music you make, the Venice Biennale. The
same dynamic: achievement in your life, people in mine.
Finally, the woman you're with, someone with few
illusions.
You should know yourself by now, you say to me.
Is that what you think?
You don't need anyone. I knew that from the start.
***
Chinese New Year. Joggers emerged from the mist
like phantoms on the uphill drive. We were whirling, lost
to what was to come. My heart quickened with
premonition. On the lookout of a country park you cut
through the veil.
I stood still.
***
It'd mean something to me to see your home, you
said.
***
I read you a story about a mother who planted dry,
anxious kisses all over her teenage son's face as they
awoke in the same bed. He kissed her again and left her
standing in the middle of the room in the morning sun, in a
body that was no longer hers. We plunged into the
distance and the blows; our mind bled between the hard
edges of the writer's words.
I smiled. There were no questions in your eyes.
You reentered the room with almond soup.
When you were asleep I sat again in your reading
chair, to take cover from you.
***
In the small hours you drive me home. David Bowie
hits the high notes in Rock 'n' Roll Suicide. The vocal
escalates, mourning the collapse of a washed-up rock star.
The lyrics come from a Manuel Machado poem, you raise
your voice:
Life is a cigarette
Cinder, ash and fire
Some smoke it in a hurry
Others savor it.
I shake my head.
You're still young, you say to me. One day it'll be the
ending rather than the end that takes its toll.
I like my endings accelerated, I say. For now I'll
pretend a bit longer.
Nicole Wong
I come to you at the distant sounds of summer. The
Lion Rock Tunnel opens at twilight, hard and square
against the blooming trees. The lights speed a silent
convergence. I get a glimpse of your hand on the brake:
fine, strong knuckles, a man's hand.
On the open road comes a familiar sign. You take a
right turn.
***
The Tolo Highway gleams under the clear sky. Your
wavy hair in my face, everywhere coarse and fragrant and
tasting of metal. Your skin tanned, grainy still; your flesh
softer. The white walls are humming. Someone else was
here last night and it's not so strange I'm here tonight.
***
The saxophone welled up a siren call. We rocked
gently past old auto repair shops and broken houses in Sai
Kung. A housewife was putting laundry on the clothesline
outside her front door. A pregnant dog was licking herself
free, abandoned on the pavement.
David Sylvian met the ghosts of his life when he
thought he had broken all the doors. I preferred his vocal
for Japan to his solo works. They're layered emotions
hiding behind synthesizers, I said.
He's an emotional coward, and that speaks to me, you
said.
***
Shapes of sakura from a past life you lived. A
street-lamp shines dimly outside a luxurious house in
Kowloon Tong. A guitar glows cold, neon red, static on
stage. A sterile world; it beckons in the distance.
I never liked your works.
***
You talk about money: the multi-million dollar deal
with a telecom firm, the house you plan to buy and
renovate, the music you make, the Venice Biennale. The
same dynamic: achievement in your life, people in mine.
Finally, the woman you're with, someone with few
illusions.
You should know yourself by now, you say to me.
Is that what you think?
You don't need anyone. I knew that from the start.
***
Chinese New Year. Joggers emerged from the mist
like phantoms on the uphill drive. We were whirling, lost
to what was to come. My heart quickened with
premonition. On the lookout of a country park you cut
through the veil.
I stood still.
***
It'd mean something to me to see your home, you
said.
***
I read you a story about a mother who planted dry,
anxious kisses all over her teenage son's face as they
awoke in the same bed. He kissed her again and left her
standing in the middle of the room in the morning sun, in a
body that was no longer hers. We plunged into the
distance and the blows; our mind bled between the hard
edges of the writer's words.
I smiled. There were no questions in your eyes.
You reentered the room with almond soup.
When you were asleep I sat again in your reading
chair, to take cover from you.
***
In the small hours you drive me home. David Bowie
hits the high notes in Rock 'n' Roll Suicide. The vocal
escalates, mourning the collapse of a washed-up rock star.
The lyrics come from a Manuel Machado poem, you raise
your voice:
Life is a cigarette
Cinder, ash and fire
Some smoke it in a hurry
Others savor it.
I shake my head.
You're still young, you say to me. One day it'll be the
ending rather than the end that takes its toll.
I like my endings accelerated, I say. For now I'll
pretend a bit longer.
BIO: Nicole Wong is a fiction writer
from Hong Kong. Her stories have been
published in Hong Kong, US, UK, Australia
and India. http://nicolettew.blogspot.com/
from Hong Kong. Her stories have been
published in Hong Kong, US, UK, Australia
and India. http://nicolettew.blogspot.com/
The Poetry Warrior (c) Abigail Beaudelle - 2008.
All Poetry and artwork (c) the respective artists.
All Poetry and artwork (c) the respective artists.