Valen Lim: “Zuihitsu”
This poem was previously published under Valen Lim’s now-retired pen name Edward Tan.
Each day I wake up in a new body. My gut folds onto itself as if to disappear.
I read that in Hinduism, the soul rises into the throat. To me, the soul enters and exits through the navel. To make things easier, I start by slicing open my abdomen. I am still full of surprises—an extra hand, a pot of teeth, your face staring back at me. No blood can be drawn without a little chutzpah.
My mouth is full of death. My gums, marred with yesterday’s grit. Underneath my tongue, perhaps the last letter I will ever write. I spit it all into the sink, watch as it swirls down the drain. My neighbours wave to me as though I am going to war. When did they start wearing that sad smile, that gentle acceptance?
Give me the news straight. I am interested in the next international crisis. Let’s get the war band back together again. The road is empty at this time of day, and I could lie here for hours without getting hurt.
My head, a barbed-wire bed. My head, a minefield ballet.
On a run, I find a child’s nametag lying on the pavement. I’d like to live nameless and forgotten. Neither praised nor a bother. A sparkle in the bush. Parting the leaves: two eyes, then four. And then none.
I try to pay for lunch but find I am out of cash. I shake open my mouth and find spare change. No receipt is offered. Coins stacked can be a prayer or a curse. Coins flipped can mean everything or nothing. You need to call it—I can’t call it for you. It wouldn’t be fair. Having skipped lunch, I make do with swallowing you whole.
For now, let’s see where the path takes us. Tomorrow I will forget the words, so tonight I start writing my script. I am drawing a map to a place I don’t know yet. I place pieces of myself at the bus stop. You could bring me along or toss me in the river, if you’d like. I’ve misplaced the words I used to get home.
Yet another sunrise and the coffee tastes the same. Getting used to the echoes of stairwells, the quiet dust of everything important. A ray of light illuminates the stagehands in this play. A single tear before the rip and shred.
I am taught that past a certain point in the day, the mind should be emptied of its flock. Emptying out a duffel bag, pouring its contents onto the floor. As though returning from a long vacation, the house is empty and new again.
My tongue is tied like an executioner’s noose. My body, my body, my body.
In a field, I am the absence of field. I know I will get lost in myself. But I will emerge, with leaves in my hair. The last soldier, a lost child, a newborn deer.
Valen Lim is a poet whose work has appeared in QLRS, Of Zoos, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. He is currently working on a new manuscript. More of his writing can be found at uglystage.com.
