Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Celia Hauw

Hues, and then one
The sky split open
today, it was healing in reverse
like a throat closing up in defense
of a truth no one would’ve liked to hear.
In a rare show, the sky turned
amethyst, purple and aching,
a bruise that couldn’t foretell an end
to its aching. What is seeing
when the eyes are no good?
That summer it rained angsana seeds –
clenched fist, forced open – nobody imagined
they’d collect down in the drain
with such certainty, flushed into the unknown.
Certainty: Like knowing by heart
how much powder to add to milk, or
the tell-tale clang of metal on a cup.
A splash of ovaltine on the white
shirt. Stain a singular shade no different
than the mud in the Singapore river
emptying into a guarded bay.

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Celia Hauw is Singaporean currently living in Chicago. She is interested in how people think about language, and majors in Neuroscience and Creative Writing at Northwestern University. Her poetry is forthcoming in Anomaly Literary Journal.