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.