Tennis With Jai Liu
Flying foxes hang replete from the rain trees
dripping in the morning sun.
They have sucked the flesh
of mamey sapote,
of rambutan and mangosteen.
Their dog-like pelts are copper pendants
that dribble a dawn dew onto our heads.
Jia Liu has an Uncle
that is not related to her.
When he is away
she takes me as a tennis partner,
and sometimes lover.
Her uncle owns
the villa.
After the game
we stroll under the large bats.
“It’s good for your hair,” she says laughing,
running ahead.
I call
“Where do they go in the heat of the day?”
“To the fruit markets in George Town,
“they hang from the rafters.”
Last night I was with her again.
A dream.
We were drinking amrita of guava,
our lips smeared
with a sweet red thirst.
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