She swims the breaststroke for her state.
You have no fight, complains the coach. Your uncle was the better
swimmer, he just kept going
She learns to battle to the brink
of a concrete box, yet stay within it.
For A-levels she crams hard, writes fast,
chooses Singapore for uni, too distant
for weekends at home. She plans
to christen herself anew, in English.
For now, she answers to Nooi—
daughter, sister—but her avatar
whispers from past the highway’s bend.
The night coach is a stained aquarium
for the self-exiled. They say Communists We didn’t talk about that
prowl the jungle beyond but in its window
she sees only Carol’s eyes.
From The Malahat Review's fall issue #224