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I was raised in endless songket voices,
hornbill clatter, gibbonsong, storms
and durian fall. None have followed
me here, the city with a jagged quiet
habitually quenching itself on my sleep.
Don’t worry

your lonely heart, no other insomniac
notices me in the neighbourhood
Kwik Dobi, open 24 hours. I have my ways,
and never a mood to weave conversation
with physicals. If I close my eyes
and drift

on the slosh and throb, damp slop
of garments midwived from steel drums,
the mutterings of sunburned hearts
in tongues only I could touch,

I’m not so far from home.
I could be home.



May Chong (@maysays on Twitter) is a Malaysian poet and speculative writer, with previous work featured in Eye to the Telescope, Anathema Magazine, Apparition Literary, and Fantasy Magazine. Her poetry has also been nominated twice for the SFPA's Rhysling Award. Away from the keyboard, she enjoys birdwatching, spoken word, video games, and the worst possible puns.
Current Issue
26 Feb 2024

I can’t say any of this to the man next to me because he is wearing a tie
Language blasts through the malicious intentions and blows them to ash. Language rises triumphant over fangs and claws. Language, in other words, is presented as something more than a medium for communication. Language, regardless of how it is purposed, must be recognized as a weapon.
verb 4 [C] to constantly be at war, spill your blood and drink. to faint and revive yourself. to brag of your scars.
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