The Carving

Stephanie Yeap

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Years ago, I tried to carve desire 
out of me, yank it from my throat
like weeds out of a backyard
but like a rising constellation
             it forced itself out of 
autumn’s wine-dark womb 
& in my stubbornness 
I refused to beg
fate for pardon. 

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The oldest tide, rushing & swelling. 
            A pair of eyes, soft & glacier blue.
                         Cream on the tip of my tongue. 

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Do you know what this means? 
            I would forget 
the lights of the city for you, denounce
its concrete embrace if you asked. 
                         I crossed oceans for you, 
& moonlight flooded my mouth for months. 

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(The rivers in your eyes / I bind 
them down)

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To be honest,
             I have forgotten blood. The torrid summers
that birthed me have slipped
out of my hands & now
we are both emptied of the dead.

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All I can offer you is this: 
tenderness flowering 
in my gums & the promise
of decay in my yellow fangs.

​

(A primal call. The woman-child’s
            faint howl. The dazzling & the gleaming;
the flashing of animal teeth.)

​

We licked doom off each other’s fingers,
             called it ambrosia.

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In my dreams, we walk endlessly
through a gentle snowdrift. 
Here we have paid our dues 
& don’t need any maps. Drenched 
in a violet afterglow, 
            I gaze at you, brimming with tomorrows.
 

Stephanie Yeap is a journalist and poet from Singapore. She holds a BA (Hons) in English Literature and History of Art from the University of York and an MA in History of Art from SOAS University of London.