April, April, April: I long to devour it,
To break down every letter, every pulse,
Every measure that wets my eager lips.
What is your name?
Is it a caramel that floats across my tongue?
Is it bread or plums
Or a dark twig of spice?
Is it the grace of water
That quenches my peasant thirst?
April, your name wounds me, burns me,
and resurrects me.
I crave your name
Because it fills my mouth
And floods my blood with you.
Hon-Wai Wong grew up in Ipoh, Malaysia and studied at the Johns Hopkins University. Exploring the body as landscape, his poetry is forthcoming in The Hopkins Review.