Written by: Tse Hao Guang (Photo by: Zann Lee)
No need to cover every scrape and ache;
You show a child he is more than blood, than thigh.
After all cuts crust over you lace his laces,
his steps stumbling through, rearranged by
you. Perhaps a child is more than blood or thigh
or stone, even if he, thrown, rolls, falls behind.
Every step him stumbling through, rearranged by
lamplight and roadsign, starting to coincide,
still throwing stones, still on a roll, falling behind
as he slips, stutters. The mossy rock is damned.
Lamps, lights, roads, signs will start to coincide
in his eyes, while, ready and leaf-broad, your palms
will steady his slip. He stutters—m-moss, rocks, d-damn—
searching for the movement from sole to soul
in your eyes. Already in your leaf-broad palms
he is safe. He might keep still now. He can grow old.
No need to cover up. Every scrape and ache
and cut has crusted over. You lace my laces.
NO COMMENT