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Tennis with Jai Liu
Flying foxes hang replete from the tall trees
dripping in the morning sun. They have sucked
the flesh of mamey sapote, rambutan and mangosteens.
Their dog-like pelts are copper pendants
that seep a dawn drenched dew onto our heads.
The summit of Penang Hill is reserved for the rich
who live above the heat and hustle.
Cool nights favor a fragrant adulatory.
Jia Liu has an 'Uncle' that is not related to her.
When he is away she takes me to the villa
as a tennis partner, and sometimes lover.
After the game we stroll under the bat dribble.
“It’s good for your hair,” she says laughing,
running ahead. I call after her:
“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.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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