Ruth Tang
Private Language Argument
The other day, he said, conversational,
careful, the other day I wondered
if I could untangle everything from
itself. What I
said, what, and he said, I mean
it, what if. Today he said
today I made myself spill
milk all over the kitchen
floor so it ran through the
tiles, made myself cry
over it over
and over until Until what
until I could put it together and feel
everything and
nothing. Which is why
the crate half apples half
oranges stood in the
hallway, waiting. I want
to break language
over my knee, he
said Till the cows come
home, and then one
did and he led it to
water with my horse,
Then he said I said
no quietly,
no, but he went on
talking, saying: then I
went out and bought you
this fish. It cost
me an
arm and a leg. There's a
bucket in the
stairwell and my knee
wants to make it
fall over.
Father-and-Son Undercover Buddy Cop Movies with Time-Travel
My father taught me how to cheat death - the sort
that happened on a faraway screen somewhere. I could see
it coming and would press pause, refuse to continue; if
I didn't watch perhaps it would unravel, unhappen. He'd say
to look up the forecast, the reassuring list of every
episode actors were to appear in. Or we could guess.
Some characters were guaranteed immortality, depending on
genre: the returning lover; the detective, depending on
how the story was cooked; no one, in tragedies,
excepting perhaps narrators. The lists were more reliable.
They worked on the principle of the promise, the agreed-
upon presence. If actors were scheduled for twenty-two episodes
they would be there that whole time, alive. Flashbacks
and other devices notwithstanding. In the comics it was easy: no death
could not be undone. They could live and live
again. It was a revolving door that consumed and spat
out. Here, Father said, was the promise that death's fractions
could be made whole again. So these were the arguments
I made when he could no longer speak: he had accepted
an invitation to a party, two months in the future. He spoke
the pun that ended the cold open. He was the careful
time-traveller who stayed on the path, who did as the plot
demanded. If he had been split apart, it was nothing
a plot twist couldn't fix. We could force the terms
of our fictions upon the world. We could live and live again.
Crabs to Slow Cooking
Everyone in this house is sleeping
or grown. In forty years you have not
done either, only the dishes. Which
themselves, like broiling meat, are never
done, either. Dinner cooked, eaten cooked
and eaten, again. Where the comma falls,
meaningless always. Meaningless,
always. We are running out of milk. We
are always running out of milk. Children
do not even like milk; it's merely
what they were told. The same as
you. What they were told and you,
not: leaving is possible. We don't yet
possess the mettle to say necessary. Casement's
unlocked, your second-best shirt clean
and open. Elsewhere you may find new
errands to love, other mouths. Forty
years sitting with shoelaces
undone. Now they are waking
only to recall their
hungers. Come back. Run.
Ruth Tang is a poet who also writes plays. Her poetry has appeared in the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore and won a Merit at the 2015 Singapore National Poetry Competition. She is co-editing the 2016 SingPoWriMo anthology. Her other preoccupations include bargain basement books and non-musical theatre.
