When a sow climbed a tree,
you exposed your straight gut.
Now you hang a goat’s head
on the wall, selling dog meat.
In the island city, you’re a double-
headed snake, with the dark face towards me.
Checking you out, I drop my bucket
of crabs, as if I ran into a ghost.
My ghost blindfolds me. I wish yours
would slap the back of your head.
You’re removing the plank you’ve used
to reach the mainland. The old cat
left on the bay is caterwauling.
Its whiskers are burnt.
Antony Huen is a poet, literary critic and lecturer. His latest publications can be found in Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Oxonian Review, Wasafiri, and Hong Kong Review of Books.
Twitter: @AntonyHuen Website: https://antonyhuen.mystrikingly.com