Poetry

OutLoud

in the downstairs bar of the Fringe Club, Hong Kong - 8pm on the first Wednesday of every month

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Buried Alive, Hong Kong Goes to Sleep, by Paul Ulrich

My stepfather comes to tuck me in for the night,

But it’s still the day, I know it.

He whispers a lullaby, mouthing the words softly,

Just like the other one did, to comfort me.

As darkness approaches,

A prick of light across the room glows orange, then dies,

And the familiar smell of matchstick on cigarette hits my senses.

It brings no happy memories.

Before I can resist, a thick, white blanket has spread above me,

Blotting out light and muffling sound.

Unseen hands push this cover onto me.

It must be Stepfather, but I sense Mother’s heavier presence nearby.

“Stop wriggling. Can’t you be quiet like your siblings?” she says.

I want to scream, “No!” but I can’t breathe, and I have no voice to speak.

The blanket covers my eyes and my mouth.

It pricks my skin and stings as it weighs on my chest.

I feel as if I’m already dead, under a white shroud,

A funeral cloth, pierced by stakes all around -

Stakes so high like skyscrapers or smokestacks.

They disappear into the shroud, and reveal nothing.

Mama, by Akin Jeje

the horned glasses

tortoise-shell, bright and gleaming

were all that remained

constant

a shuffle rather than stride

smooth cheeks caressed

into distant lands’

unknown planes, deep an’ wizened

warm silica grin conceals

the barbs in back, the

varicose veins

brightly garbed

in uhuru caftan

of course, much has changed

for the one whose

baked cashew hue

resembles mine

as a child, just before dark, she would

read baby yemi and me

ancient tales of the mighty sun, the endless

earth, the brilliance of the sky

now it is I

who sends these tales

in electronic blips

to an old woman

separated from I

by

the setting sun

an endless ocean

and the vastness

of the sky

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