August

It’s August & warm
          & my body belongs
to war. I barrack. I bare
          back the sun’s oppressive
touch like a veteran.
          The pistol cocked &
ready to fire. Your hands
          on the trigger—a reckoning
of force. How quickly
          a man decomposes into
earth into prey. On the
          knees like a four-legged
creature gunning for
          survival. Forced out
of his hide. You animal.
          I carrion. The flesh
turrets into palate.
          My father said once
that the body is vulture
          sharp, a feast for the worms.
& here I am trying
          not to bite the bullet
shaft or give a name
          to need. I watch
you recoil your head
          into a skull the shape
of bullseye. I dart.
          I dull pink to purple
pit & mile for more
          & think about what
my father would do.
          What he would say
about this—my body
          your landmark to be
bombed. How every night
          we desire in breaths.
Desire like shrapnel.
          The heart the fallout
the morning after we edge
          so close to remembering
our names.

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Conan Tan (he/they) is a queer Singaporean Chinese writer. Their poems have been published or are forthcoming in SUSPECT, Blue Marble Review, Stone of Madness, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and elsewhere. The winner of Singapore’s 2022 National Poetry Competition, he is awaiting matriculation at Oxford University this fall. During their free time, they enjoy reading, collecting vinyl and capturing fleeting moments in snapshots. Find him on Instagram and Twitter @tmyconan.