Mother’s trousseau
was not the 12 pieces of gold jewellery that
teochew girls brought with them
in a blessed arranged marriage
complete with horoscope compatibility,
social class equitability,
star quality…

Hers was everything but that.
She lived her wild streak, broke her mother’s heart.

Mother’s gold
is the resilience acquired with a baptism of fire
because of young love, burning bodies, steely self-pride;
silent admission of sacrifice,
(was it deserving?)
sometimes sour now in her old age.

Her earned trousseau
of gold bangles, gold rings, gold pendants, jade pieces
was the collateral security for crises;
because days in the fifties, sixties felt that way,
because being married to one you chose
against convention and reason
meant a necessary vigilance to defend
(so she explains now).

And every day still a war
with the might of money
for there is never enough
even when there is no more necessary crisis.

She bites her gold as she grits her teeth,
considers my eating out, flying around,
sinful splurges as throwaway nuggets.
My wild, goal-less days:
a way of breaking her heart.

[Read in Is my body a myth, which is quite beautifully bound, and published by Landmark Books in 2011, who have no website.]




My route 66 was to drive
towards an endless sky.
as a highway woman
who sings no anglo-sino ballad.

I ran my scrawls in C++
Chaucer to Kerouac,
Panthurst to Woolf,
Eve to Mother,
cells and bytes

I cut my finger
slicing fish
on a chopping board
and pulled my back
bringing in laundry –
they are reality bites
to tell me
my ego has gone too huge.

Properly protected,
I did no drugs,
smoked no cigarettes,
hardly drank
and kissed none
till well over twenty-one,
does this make me an everywoman?

How unreal was my rainbow sky.

[Read in Contouring by Heng Siok Tian, Landmark Books, which is in part a dialogue with Emily Dickinson. A piece of a C++ screenshot ripped from – something I know nothing about.]