Watch your new eyes, friend;
mata kucing’s gift to you
drips with nectar still.
Since you had no eyes for truth,
theirs will do. When you vowed
to replace our old growth
with better forests, this is how
such favour is repaid.
Your tongue? A gift from wild yam,
who saw your itch, your avarice
speaking out of turn.
The swelling shall subside
eventually. Do be still.
We cannot guarantee these limbs
shivered from our crackling crowns
shan’t ignite beneath your skin.
The lianas took a vote, gave up
their toughest twists to form
your new frame. When you creak
awake, brittle, rain-starved,
remember them.
Your heart, rattling hollow,
we traded with meranti’s
whirring seed. Now who knows
how both shall grow?
Mengkuang sends apologies;
too late to turn your skin
thorn-side outside after
the set of sap and spidersilk.
But humans are adaptable. You
can deal with it.
Be grateful for those elders
who denied you—tualang, merbau,
ipoh, kapur—disfigured, denuded,
buried in your foundations.
Thank every growing thing
none were more generous.
Too late now to prune back
your termite words, belukar thoughts.
In every skinned root, remember:
all of us have cradled bones
older than the rain and dirt
you taste where flesh meets tooth.
May Chong is a bi Chinese Malaysian poet, speculative writer, and two-time Rhysling nominee (for poems first published in Apparition Lit #1 and #11) . Her verse has been featured in Strange Horizons, Anathema Magazine, Uncanny Magazine, and Fantasy Magazine. Away from the keyboard, she enjoys birdwatching and the worst possible puns. Find her online at maychong.bsky.social.
Photo by Omid Armin on Unsplash
