Poem: Levitation by Kristine Ong Muslim



Imagine water and its mutable

foundation dissolving your island,

the landlocked continental mass

that houses your trespassers.


Since you are deftly angled for survival,

you, too, can walk on water, can float

several feet off the ground without the help

of strings, like how the ancients did it:


imbibe in its rendered form

what cannot be made whole.

Conjure what does not exist.

Conjure what cannot exist. Believe.


And you will float. You will then see

what your sinking island is made of:

a small farming town, valley-ringed,

denuded tropical forests around the periphery,


basalt streaked yellow by sulfide deposits.

Exposed by weathering are portions

of bedrock, bands of serpentine

and calcite, the stuff made of time.


Beyond the valleys, beyond

this doom, the slouched forms

of city people slowly waste away,

weakened by their conveniences.


Everywhere, the whiff of corn fields,

of grains of rice sifted through threshers,

of religious lunacy, of superstition,

of tenacity and sweat and violence.


The farmhands, who cannot read and cannot write,

pile sacks of ammonium nitrate near the heating duct.

And now they are burning. They are screaming.

You don’t forget the sound of dying men.


You also don’t forget the sight of 58 mangled bodies

haphazardly buried by a backhoe, of chainsawed men—

how they wet their pants when the blade starts whirring

and how it takes a long time for them to die.


You don’t forget the telltale hum of fluctuating

electricity before the transformers explode,

the drone of tractors squat against the sludge,

the sound of galloping wild horses—


behind them, the light, golden and dwarfed

by their graceful, sinewy bodies. The wild horses

once owned these fields you have razed and leveled.

Now, your people’s dirty hands have reshaped


these tracts of land, tilled what grows in loam.

How the dirty hands take more than they can give.

How the dirty hands widen the festering holes

of the hollow men, freeing their ripened insides


until their rot permeates the groundwater,

until their rot taints the hardwood planks that line

the two-story house your elders built with their hands.

This disgust, this rage, this swamp that reeks


of pestilence—because nothing really ever heals.

The man you love kills himself. His arc of descent

is a dome holding up, holding down your sky.

Under the dome, your truths are laid bare,


carrying your many names, petering outward to lick

the soles of your slightly elevated feet.

You will soon lose the ability to levitate,

and the water will gobble up your island,


drown the swash zone, the wrack line, the berm.

Only the farm dogs will survive, of course, because

dogs live forever. Listen to them howl with the honk

of the air horn, howl with the siren from a faraway ship.


KristineOngMuslimKristine Ong Muslim is the author of several books and chapbooks, most recently Grim Series (Popcorn Press, 2012), We Bury the Landscape (Queen’s Ferry Press, 2012), and Insomnia (Medulla Publishing, 2012). Her stories and poems appeared in many places, the likes of Asia Literary Review, Boston Review, Southword, Sou’wester, and The State. She is the poetry editor of LONTAR: The Journal of Southeast Asian Speculative Fiction, the quarterly literary journal published by Math Paper Press and edited by Jason Erik Lundberg. Her online home is http://kristinemuslim.weebly.com

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