When you were seven, you couldn’t get 马
Right, and Ms Huang took a steel ruler,
Carved an absent mane, absent legs
On the back of your porcelain palm.
She said, let’s not first think
About 馬. Pretend you’re a pitiful god
Who has taken the skewers of its eyes
Away, its hooves and tail the mute
Singularity of 一. Pacing around Bishan
North, 财神爷 is here again, clutching
His gold ingot, and you read fortunes
Inscribed on the pedestal,
How Tiger babies will fare:
A friendly alignment, finally, blessed
By 太岁, good relationships,
a good career, good unions,
With a sprinkle of stomach
Issues. And you can’t help but laugh.
Your birthday fell on 初一:
The lion dance troupe spat
Mandarin peels at you.
Another year in Adelma, the mind
‘Refuses to accept more faces, finds
The most suitable mask.’
Firecrackers are banned.
Blotched ink on 春联 dries.
There is nobody left.
You raise your fetlocks and a sweat-sleek
Neck, stumble past the crossings,
Cold throw of traffic lights,
Stopping only to nuzzle your flank.