Meditations by Brian Lee (19, Singapore)

It does not make sense
how we reluctantly found our
way here, mecca of hearts,
heir apparent to True North,
past the little brick hut, past
the pebbles in the rain, past
the scattered hoa mai, lying
downtrodden as youthful year

do. Especially when we cast
our exoticised gaze upon them
from behind these aged gates,
coated ineluctably with the
corrosive patina of a dozen years.
But your lips part in protest--

Không, không! as your clear-seeing
fingertips direct our gaze upon
the streets, garlanded by
their sooty pavements; see how
the children still ride pillion upon
the leathered humpback Vespas:
observe how the festive horns
continue to rise with the wind.

All I can afford, a pauper,
the crumpled năm ngàn dollar bills
from torn jeans and windbreakers.
Adorned with sighs, no, they
are not falling into the zookeeper’s 
calloused hands. Keep your 
clean fingers clean, they float,

with Pepsi-Cola bottlecaps,
stomped into concrete and
faded by time. Along with
the softshell turtle of old, which
we sheltered with grains
and the occasional shrimp, until
its bite grew hard and demeanour
frosty. To which (I recall,

but perhaps you were 
still young.) we remedied
without delay, casting it
with impunity, flinging this
once-cherished old memory
into the gaping mouth of Sông Sài Gòn.
Sans farewell. And on the
way back, perhaps (memory

sometimes eludes me) 

we turned down the street
right beside Thảo Cầm Viên,
entered the seafood restaurant--
“Ocean Palace”--
asked for a table, walked past
the giant tank housing its kin.

​