Lian Sing

Revelations

The day is a series of slippages. In the cupboard of china sits the silence of unsung lifetimes. We are not owed sunlight. Every day, I am an animal. Desire is a gift, not a chalice to be filled. In the twilight of a life, shadows must be another kind of sea stretching towards beginning. But we’re not there yet; instead, a prayer on presence as we set the table for the arrival of new friends. With the right windows, everything is golden. Even the assorted silverware, but we forget that forever is a lesson on choose. There is never the right footwear, but sometimes the flooring calls for ballet shoes. We must relearn dancing, the kind that woos the weather. The ones that woo another. Divine is the womb. In every fold of the napkin is a dream offered in curlicues. Cellos are silk scarves draping our bodies in sheen. Somewhere along the stem of a rose is starlight saccharine. A kiss can be stillness. And joy is an ancient tree. The rest are lovely weeds painting the floorboards evergreen. At noon, a chasm opens impalpable as breath. But we’re not there yet; now is both freefall and suspension. The panorama and cocoon. A gasp.