To An Unknown Woman at the Opera
I want to hold you with an open
hand: a weightless body, like a moth
alighting on my palm, then winging
off again. I do not wish to speak
to you, or close myself around you
(though, I must confess, it would be nice
to be the arm on which you lean, the
ear in which you drop a whispered joke)--
what if you lisp, or smell of garlic,
chatter only about shoes? But veiled
in shadow, you are made perfect, a
powdered pout, a cheekbone angled high,
a riddle of a face. Remain that
way, as I remain a puzzle to
the man who watches me: a creature
of the intermission, framed within
a fickle lens for just a minute,
undeciphered still, and unpossessed.
Born and raised in Singapore, Valerie Ang is a student of LASALLE College of the Arts' MA in Creative Writing programme. She loves queer lit and mythology, and is the proud owner of a three-foot stuffed whale.
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