High Tide

by Zhang Chenxi

down on coney island the sloshing of

waves brings forth white grey black coloured hues where,

peppering just above the shorelines like

artificial food colouring.

a dried sea cucumber lies in its sand casket, so

extinguished of life it should have been dead, it has drank so much

salt water it cannot move. you stroke its hard exterior and it begs

for a saviour.

like coy girls those mangrove trips you up through the journey into

shrubbery, barely protruding above the moist sand. they should as well

be unbreathing too, as you pick up a plastic bag encircling one of

those wane roots.

you asked for life; none came. the illicit fishing rod droops in vain;

only those tousled weeds at the seabed wrestles with your bait, pulling and

pulling, the hook only cradles, not a luminescent seabass,

but white styrofoam.

you loved coney for its kaleidoscopic sunset, the fading glow of the golden girl

shimmering gracefully atop the gleaning, gyrating sea waters for most beautiful por una cabeza,

but today She hides behind those suffocating rain clouds, for She no longer shines like a woman, too shy

to dance again.

and you knew the punggol sea breeze so well, for two years ago it would pamper you

and embrace you and tickle you with its warm breath down your sensitive neck and lick

away your tears and relieve you from the sweat, but what’s left is stale air callous of

your languished longing.

what envelopes you now is nothing but the ghost of a magpie’s last song,

the vestiges of a last picnic from a faded volleyball, the whispers of the last laughters,

the island has heard privy to you, and you ask: when has it all

come to this?

down on coney island the falling of

waves brings away red green blue yellow spots and

along with it, the sinusoidal ta-dum ta-dum in you.

the cycle repeats.