Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher Magazine, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
By Julian Matthews
You smile. Sambal leaves your hibiscus red lips. Bits of yolk reconstitute
into its soft, egg white whole. The whiff of pandan is lost. You sniff,
wrap the nasi lemak packet then return it to the pyramid
pile at pakcik’s stall. His palms are still greasy.
We re-enter our blue Kancil. The car gostans
all the way back home. Along the way, the speeding
food delivery rider I narrowly missed, unclenches his fist,
gives up his green uniform, returns to his office job.
He’s up for promotion, loves his work, picks up his children
at school and goes home. His wife beams. He unpecks her left cheek.
Inverted time speeds up. Ventilators are removed from ICUs.
Patients rise from beds and are wheeled back into ambulances
and sent home. Daily infection numbers, like an auto flip clock,
go from four digits to zero. Masks come off. Everyone breathes
easy again. Chinese tourists walk backwards up a plane’s boarding
steps and fly home in reverse. Suitcases are unpacked.
People like starlings empty out of concerts and churches,
theatres and temples, stadiums and suraus; murmurations in the sky.
Fireworks undrizzle at night and return to earth, unexploded.
Firecrackers go silent.
Our parents are alive, our children are home.
Our families reunite at dinner. We kiss, laugh, embrace then unhug,
separate and unwave. Thoughts of meeting up that night make us smile.
Folded voting slips pop out of glass boxes. Voting booths empty.
Indelible ink washes itself off. Long lines disperse. We leave
hometowns, return to cities. Tears slide back up our cheeks
and into our eyes. FRU trucks, like angry red elephants, suck up
chemical-laced water. Grenade launchers swallow gas canisters.
Police back off. Red shirts and yellow shirts undye. Bersih just means clean.
We, you and me, fade from existence. Decades fly by.
Our fathers are at the stadium, hallowed be their names.
The crowd chants !akedreM !akedreM !ake-
dreM, each time their voices soften. Tunku lowers his raised hand,
clenches his right fist. The flag comes down. Its star and stripes are folded in.
The crescent moon is hidden. Eventually, all flags turn to white.
Somewhere, a keris is forged.
First published in Rabbit Annual 2025, Australia.
