The girl whose face is in faux porcelain bowls

by Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

She makes no apologies. Full of sleep,
Her subtle rudeness is no one else's responsibility.
You believe that she's sweet. She smiles, she nods,
She says Yes. She's most certainly not listening.
She's fantasising about Indian clouds, Polish maps,
Dead magazines on French desks.

She makes no apologies. She reads and reads
Whole night long like a hypnotised sheep.

She makes no apologies. Her bizarre upturned lamps
Littered in her house are like grail cups. They hold
Solidified drops of past and present love.

She makes no apologies. Any indulgences
For her are necessities. Three coffees
Before sex just so she burps caffeine
After sighing: Go deeper. Go deep.

She makes no apologies. Call her a Cambodian
And she laughs. Call her an 'authentic' Chinese
She would flinch. Where's her cheongsam?

She makes no apologies. The only spontaneous
Things she does are motivated by changing status
Of consciousness, but more often, body fluids:
'Creative juice is selective about lying.'

No apologies.