super human by Brian Lee (19, Singapore)

for Hugh's birthday

it took a while for you
to spit out your first words:
daddy. mummy. and when
they did arrive, they were
few and far between,
the blooming of tanhuas,
shoots that desperately

wanted to germinate. and
i did not always have green
fingers; i did not always 
know how to water you.
not with my little stubby fingers
that had only learnt to
poke and shove, not with
my lack of a cultivator’s

tender patience. so you cried,
your tears soft morning dew,
beading beneath your 
beautiful, bulbous, almond
eyes. i said your forehead
was round and smooth
like a fire hydrant; it was
my crude articulation of

a love i had yet to fully grasp.
but your ways became
familiar, then my own. your
enduring fascination with green;
like a plant’s indomitable will
to grow, absorb, grow some more,

and how you grew!
in such fascinating and 
mysterious ways. some shunned
you, said that you would not
go far. in my world, the 
unenlightened were derogatory,
sometimes cruel. a seasoned

watcher of your ways, my veins
boiled with rage. but no matter.
your first words were always
your roots, rooting for you:
mummy tilled the soil
day in day out, rain or shine,
daddy built a cozy roof above us.

and more: mama poured in
fertiliser, gugu pollinated 
the flowers. and koko?
no, that was not among
the words in the core.
brian. brian--

this root shall be intertwined
with yours, in winter and summer.

​