The words catch in your lengthy trunk.
The words catch in the bulbous
end of things.
The words catch in ears immense,
“We die, we will die, we are dying.”

You are the snake in fertile fields.
You are pressed lips in company,
breath stopped mid-kiss,
your silent mouth spits,
time is all, time means nothing.

The cobwebs we wrap around our eyes,
a mask, a shield, a sticky trap,
an ancient slow poison, its
tendrils curve around our sight.
We choose blindness before the end.

The pumping of our hearts, we know
we do not determine the cadence.
The beat is its own drum.
There is a bullet hidden
in this noisy toy.

The words catch in the stroke of throat.
The words catch at the tip of ancient tusk.
The words catch in eyes tear dewed.
They catch the scattered years,
barren years, wombed in silence.


I’ve got this panic
stricken feeling,
I’ve failed.
If only I said
the right things,
screamed at the proper
pitch, I would not be
with the rest

of the world and here
I am as the
waters rise,
vainly flailing
for passing driftwood,
reaching out for what

splinters and floating
trash might prove
I don’t deserve
this end,
I just want to breathe, and

it’s never been about
who is worthy,
we are the same
species, the same
sentience, the same
drowning soul

Es Foong is astounded to be a poet, flash fictionista and spoken word performer based in Naarm (Melbourne), living online at waffleirongirl.com. On-stage, she is the poetic analogue of heavy-metal karaoke; off-stage, she eats identity labels for breakfast.