Spring 2012

Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 1


Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Essays    Reviews   

Arthur Leung


The Stay

Languor of small hours, a man, lying prone under dim yellow light,
draws circles with his left forefinger on the bed sheet, rotates
around a blood stain for a couple of breathing minutes before
wandering across the arm of a woman lying in the same nakedness
until his finger reaches the valley between her breasts and circles
again, and goes fuller and fuller like the ones drawn on the pads of his son
who ran to him bare-footed and asked, ‘are my circles round enough?’

A smile, occasionally becoming smoke that whirls in the air, fades,
whirls again as the cigarette is finished, quietly leaves some wet ashes
and banknotes beside a rusted embroidery lamp, leaves for another woman
waiting on the couch, and drunk in his circling his forefinger slips back
from her skin to the bed sheet as he falls asleep with his mouth open
as if ready to howl out the echo of a name that circles and circles.


© Arthur Leung


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Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Essays    Reviews   

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