Zhuang Yusa


Mother would have slapped me for shame
though being mother she wouldn’t: not proper

manners to exhibit
passion in public: the curtains stirred in the wings.

I stirred the soup
with torn bread –

The cute waiter with your eyes and lips
looked twice and again

this way, as if there was something he’d forgotten to serve –
Dinner crept like Noh.

I’d turned the page of my book
for an understanding; the knowledge was something else

neither was prepared to learn, nor having learnt –
willing to accept.

Moving On (With Love)

On the subject of happiness my friend the pusher said

in that case they –

the unhappy lot – just

don’t know where to look. I nodded, bobbing

in my mouth his beautiful cock

for in the dark there was no need to see.

Zhuang Yusa lives in Singapore. His poetry has been published in Asia Writes, Ganymede, The Los Angeles Review, Softblow, nth position and elsewhere. He is a founding editor of Walnut Literary Review (www.walnutliteraryreview.net).

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