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Ruth Boon Jun 2013
I woke with his taste,
my fingers missed his skin,
and my mouth missed his face,
and in the pit of my torso I felt the weight,
the absence,
my hollow fate
Ruth Boon Jun 2013
The floor,
amber leaves whispering at my feet
and the trees old and young
like me

white bark with black scars

I try to look for you
but you hide like wind
and I listen to the rustle of our home,

you disappear
from me as always

like laughter
from someone getting older

your kisses swim in the air that I can smell
and the scents of forest floor

my dress is made of petals
that are all browning with age
like my eyes

I wore the cold like your breath on my mouth
and your quiet sighs to my forehead
like wilting flowerbed thoughts

and I threw you into the wind
like burning letters
Ruth Boon Jun 2013
XY
**
What’s the difference?
They’re both just ***.
Ruth Boon Jun 2013
There is a baby who is crying
like a lion caught in barbed wire
and he turns to me
and now he looks like
a cub who has just been snatched

The tour guide father shows the westerners Kaitak
to distract them from the fact
that his baby is roaring
he tells them to wear their seat belts
or there will be a 5000 dollar fine
I wonder if its just that he doesn’t want to
be held accountable for
if the driver flips
and we flip too

We’d be upside-down
sailing through the air
on a roller coaster loop
with no track there

and the baby would cry
The radio would play it’s canto-pop songs
The lady next to me with the beautiful smile would scream
The man with the purple glasses would be wearing purple glasses no more
My laptop would fly

Considering my luck
I’d probably take my last breath then quickly die
and how nice it would be to fly
just before I slept
Ruth Boon Jun 2013
I tell you
you are the sea
You tell me
I am a spring
in New York
I am man-made
woman maid
construction site
cut like ham
served to slaves
You are chimney
smoke
burning oak
soaking in ash
I flash you
a smile like
a yearning
match
You smile like
leaves in the
cold
shaking with
hope
Holding on
to your tree
You
stop me
from singing
my bird song
all along,
I’ve been:
a burn
on your thigh
or your hip
a slip of the
tongue
or maybe
the lips
You could be
window
but your
curtains are
always closed
or drawn
like a child’s
crayon art
I could be
bike
broken on the
road
or like
the bones
protecting
the heart
Please believe me
as I pray
to the dogs
that I may turn
into the spaces
in between
your lungs
Ruth Boon Jun 2013
The beauty of sleeping,
is forgetting,
that you were ever alive
Ruth Boon Jun 2013
I sit with my beer and cigarette,
watching the chinese men play football
and wonder,
how something
that seems so pointless
can be
so fun.
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