Kristine Ong Muslim

Dining with M.

Your teeth, like blunt thorns,
are made to tear the ego
out of roasted beef.
Something about your
front teeth's yellowish tinge
bothers me.

And your smile, yes,
it reminds me of a sealed
stationery envelope, the one
that can be steamed open
to reveal the emptiness inside.

You insinuate drowning
whenever you swallow
something liquid.
I do not know what to make
of it, but it is a bit scary.

Hollow Wolves

These are the suns
That illumine our souls:
Blasting lights
In masturbatory rage
Unforgiving and cathartic.
Dusk is poetry, an unfinished sentence
Which cannot be taken back.
But suicide, a time-honored tradition,
Speaks its piece at midmorning
When the shadows are few.

An earlier version of this poem appeared in Illumen, Autumn 2004.

Thin Ice

Death has its visions:

the damp earth absorbing
the screams of grief
which settle on its surface

the music from the overheating stereo
echoing in the middle of the night
like a capful of pureed little gods
with their secret soundtrack
dragging and digging its way
back into the silent world.