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Arlene Ang |
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Something About Fire I'm not one to play with matches. Even though I learned early about the pyrotechnics of vinyl from a brother who was a Fire Horse under eastern stars. He was cremated for disco-dancing brandy and heroin in his veins on the job. For years I cradled his urn in unsleeved arms. Ash stuck to my nose, freckles, mustache I've tried to drown in bleach. The soot was something I could never wash off. Later I found myself married to a short-order cook who was a Fire Sign under western stars. Trying to avoid the heat of his gas range, I left garlic sizzling in oil to the extent of standing widowed on kohl-drenched ground. These days I still see shadows of firemen through the smoke. I shouldn't wash the soot from my hair, they said. Black did so become me. Horror It is sacrilege to badmouth the dead. My husband is still alive, no signature has love-linked his name to deceased. Night is slashed by B movies, slosh of intestinal gas when couched with hands that channel control by thumbing buttons in half-light. I never nightmared starring in Gothic horror my cleavage exclaiming sexual gore from the Victorian ruffles of Mum's bedclothes while I hobble like Igor, fatten myself on swine, their ribs twisted to expose hearts I greedily consume in absence of his tongue, orgasm I have forgotten how to fake. Would I that Frankenstein's monster were to crush skull, spill my brains from his ravenous mouth. Not have this gray hand fall asleep on my breast again. Day and Night in Sharm-El-Sheikh (2002) Day bleeds enough suntan to turn white skin red. Snorkel hopefuls waddle from shore to shore in search of roads and water unrifled by the mustached guards of 5-star resorts. With large rocks on the beach instead of sand, swimming is a step towards suicide despite covered feet while waves make sure every bather scrapes knees in effort not to bow before the ambush of python waves. The artificial city wields a two-edged axe glinting to decapitate bored housewives with chicken served and re-served on buffet. Night allows the consumption of watered-down gin at 10 dollars a shot -- insidious curfew that ascertains small spenders are home by six o'clock. In the kitchened living room, nightlife scorpios via cable a disco-dance of Arabian news scenes exposing carnage caused by US military bombings while, steady like the midnight roar of tv snow, shrouded women wail over cemeteries of unburied bodies and men war with placards in their hands. There is a price on every white man's head. |