By Willow Kang Liew Bei
i. The First Month
Fires, cataclysmic raiders brought on by the shelling
have grounded this terra into draconic bone
not even the primordial oak trees survive,
remnants of their bark scattered around what
were once parks. The red spider lilies lay ashen
in graves charred with similarly ambitious cherubims,
& the skeletons of the artists still clutch rifles
which we pry from them in death,
will the emptiness relieve them or
had the weight been a passing mourner?
So, like the rightful monarchs before us, those
pickaxe-wielding kings & queens in woven hats
we mine for stardust from the powdered ruins
of this cursed city
then, with tender breaths, sweep the dust into animal biscuits.
Wait for life to scuttle again
ii. The Second Month
We freed the bunnies today
from that unknowable tabula rasa of the cargo bay.
Outside was a more unforgiving prairie
where imperial carpets are red, dyed with blood,
rubies cruelly pillaged from stardust.
& as the bunnies journey they will find
other smoldering lives, but in this country
a civilization of creatures in eternal naivete,
stampeding bunnies will finally overrun the killing fields
iii. The Third Month
After, we delivered the corpses home,
saw to the spirit’s ascension on haloed aviaries,
let us hop up onto the roof and watch
with bated breath the shimmering cast of candles
dance through the black grime of this oil-coated earth.
Let us feel, together, living flesh undulating again,
that melts the unyielding isolation
of this city built from past desolations, past mistakes
iv. The Fourth Month
Two lovers waltz in the kitchen,
swirls of chocolate following their footsteps
twisting and turning like a spasming clock
& upon them I pray
for the door gods' blessings
to keep away the snow-coated coyotes,
those imps of the Moon's mischief
v. The Fifth Month
I can make a promise to you
about the wastelands: soon we can build
our cabins there, trees too,
imperial ones, cedars & jacarandas &
everything else the garden gnomes
would call for, teapots & pools.
Are you still worrying about the grazing creatures
with their serrated mouths?
But who wouldn't want the Easter bunnies back?
You forget, how they huddled in their flocks
when the planets came crashing down on us,
their cries, a siren that cut through
our jagged slumbers, woke us up to the inferno,
so let them in too & maybe we can learn
together, to be two ludic mountain shepherds
vi. The Sixth Month
We bade farewell to the crumbling grounds, instead
step, jump lighter than the bumbling missiles did,
into the radiance of the clouds,
still balmy from leftover solar flares, & there
we will create a new sanctuary for trustful bunnies
beneath us, hellhounds roam but here
in this genesis, why not try
to understand first, how gentle giants become.
After all, we, as morsels of stardust
were not born bellicose
vii. The Seventh Month
For the terrapin is an overeating nebulae,
teeth like celestial cutters.
It would love the starfish, the glitter
spilled on the floorboards by the sun,
a toddler, hands flailing like the clock
does when it looks down to see itself straddling
this colorful winded horse called life
viii. The Eighth Month
The children hold their picnics &
high teas on the lawn, flying kites
without worrying about airplane crashes.
By dusky hues we sit on swings,
do nothing at all, except feel for the
cautious hops of bunnies on the spring soil,
the yoga sequences of the clouds.
It is only at night that the terrors manifest
& this second can be as long
as we want it to be, like how the children
never fear at all, for sundown & going home
ix. The Ninth Month
The universe spins on the axes of
a single stalk of wildflower,
we spend mornings in the national parks,
laughing like the shrill wind
without rations & cabins,
mouths earthen, drooling dew
x. The Tenth Month
The acid rains have come and gone
now it is us, huddled by the fire
singing songs of our ancestors
with silver tongues
there is a future to worry about
but let us breathe more
of this terra's perfumed air,
with its floating nectar, & now, dew rains
because our silver tongues too can weave
into the tapestry of our muddled fates
something coherent, a worldly raison d'être
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