Pui Ying Wong

A cake has risen in the oven,
golden as Van Gogh’s sunflowers,
a poor girl’s match light,
moonbeams in the black dog’s eyes.

So much has been taken from you: love,
dreams, time. When strangers ask,
like the psychiatrist needs case histories,
the usher needs tickets,
Doubting Thomas needed the wound,
you refuse to answer.

Do they know they cannot hold still the clouds,
handcuff the thunder?

Do they know memory is not the wax replica
in the museum, but is infused with love,
dreams, time?

You are left with papers, words, some foreign.
You write about dawn that is the dawn.
Silver taxis move in the night like minnows,
the way your beloved once walked toward you
and could not be mistaken for anything
but joy.

Moonbeams in the black dog’s eyes.
A poor girl’s match light,
golden as Van Gogh’s sunflowers.
A cake has risen in the oven.

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