by Ang Kia Yee

After Cyril Wong

At your touch I fold into half
And become a plain through which

Both of us might run. In bed,
When we have loved and lost

I sing you a Joni Mitchell song.
Those moments render themselves

Perfectly to the reader, an origami
With every fold precise, sequence

Immediately obvious. There is no
Boat here. As we wrap into each other

Our fear of forgetting triggers
The camera click, enshrining us

In this memory already not ours.