Poetry By Kendrick Loo

Self Portrait as Hou Yi

Guarding my heart even from myself,

I returned to the temple. Memories return,

unwelcome, in this space. For so long

I had knelt here, a dutiful son before the altar

and braced for your fists to bruise.

I remembered blank eyes, as blood

dripped from my split lip to your altar, as you

held a razor of silence against my throat.

I remembered offering myself,

emptied and alone, as red ink ran down

the sharp line of the razor. How

I followed your pointed finger, aiming my bow

at every enemy you deemed unworthy. As ink

spilt to the upturned soil, I would wait

with my head bowed in the temple,

having raised my colourless hand

in obedience to your name. I waited

but your praise never came. Only the unspoken

desire for my blood to give up its ghost.

When I was young, I thought this wise:

to obey this unspoken edict, to walk

down that long heaven of light and

go blind to myself. Now wiser, I know

I should not give myself to devotion

or let centuries roll by in heaven

without respite. I should not harden

into halo, bearing no name but Devotion.

Yes, I could follow the myths, but I

deserved better than bravery. Respite

from tragedy’s scripture and its promise

of immortality. If we follow the myth—

my partner takes my place in the pantheon.

I perform penitence and then promise

I will see them again when the gods allow it.

Consider, however, that my place in this story

is more of a punishment than a freedom.

When I defy the gods, I choose rather than accept fate.

I step out of the story and its narrative tethers,

falling free. No obligations to others, only my own.

When I reappear, that was my first day on earth.

Elicit

In the light limned world of the club where the mist machine

Has turned every person into blurred boundary,

Red halo, the men have come to dance,

Which is to say some are turning into music,

Their bodies becoming supplicant to the bassline

Even as others turn towards other bodies, an easy smile,

A light kiss on the mouth. The night is young and everyone

Is covering their phones with stickers. What happens

Here is not for the outside world. Here, in this mist-clad echo

We shed the bodies we know for shadow, let ourselves

Merge into the throng and tussle. Eyes closed, I am less

Of a person I once was. I shift with the ocean

Of hands on hips, shoulders, cheeks. If the night

Is a currency, we spend it here in mutual company.

I change with each person I say hello to, am offered

An opportunity in exchange. Here, in this church of desire

Men lift their alms to the dancers with their mouths.

Anticipation kindles in every body. There is nothing

Here to forgive. Later, all these gathered flames will return

To the nameless grids of online torsos and lonely stars.

But here, at least for now, we are bodiless in the long-held chorus

Of the songs chosen. A cluster of creation, allowed to be.