and we met at the supermarket row: you are standing on the other end like a postmodern colossus you are too far away. locked away by history to a different aisle. this, it seems, is an alternate dimension which demanded new laws of physics, a different flavour of honesty under the same white lights. to take a step forward was to break all the glassware, to see the sunkist cartons fall from their pedestals cutting open a tangerine artery that congeals into pulp in the frozen foods section, to take too much of a chance. so we stand fifty feet apart (you by the fresh vegetables holding a lime, and i by the breakfast cereals) and we get used to the distance. content ourselves with the orchestration of trolleywheels creaking a patchwork song. we both laugh at the same pretentious teenager at the organic foods wearing a wool cardigan in this sunny singaporean supermarket and for a moment everything seems bearable but
the white lights sharpen in intensity, like the blinding glare of a dentist’s chair. aisles, shelves, checkout counters, cashiers, families, lovers, entrances, exits all collapse into union. dissolve the way a dream does upon waking.
and this is what I wake up to: the persistent You, still too far away.
Wahid Al Mamun is currently awaiting his call-up to National Service in his native Singapore, where he is probably going to spend two years behind a desk. He has learned to be proud of his Bangladeshi heritage, which occasionally seeps into his writing. In his spare time he likes to write and play guitar and tries his best to be proficient at both, with mixed results. His work has previously been published in the first Singapore Poetry Writing Month (SingPoWriMo) anthology, released