Memorandum

A few things 
One could never get used to:

The bitter taste of cold 
Black coffee that lurked thickly
Above one's throat 
Like last night's languor, 
And that unbecoming fatigue 
Of Monday morning—both seemingly difficult 
To discard.

Likewise
Those time-burnt photographs and 
Eye-stinging onion peels, rifted by scissors
And knives—nobody bled, but 
The wound ached nevertheless.

Or the day—that day—when 
The flat-voice of a grandmother
Ailed over the telephone, speaking 
Wishfully of euthanasia.

Then argued—
Her sour-pickled spine shook to make fists 
With folded hands—
Those limbs cracked aflame 
As if to spark life. Then rest
Shortly afterwards, worn-out 
Like an old doll ragged and placed 
Peacefully—back on the chair.

These are a few things 
Arduous to bear.

Dale Chou
2002-04-29