A Fish Jumped Out of the Spoon

I am enjoying the squash soup, savoring the last mouthful or two, when a fish lands on my spoon. A live fish, no less - and spouting words of wisdom. Honestly, it says; there’s no such thing as fish too dumb to distinguish between a fake worm and a live worm. It’s just that only the brave fish are prepared to bite the bait. Coward fish skulk in deep waters, burrowing into mud to hide from humans.  Rare is the fish that survives the hook, reaching the table live and whole. A legend, dare I call a specimen like myself. Generations of fish will bow to such legends.

Could I imagine, asks the fish on my spoon, the way blood gushes out of the gullet of fish brave enough to bite the bait?  Could I possibly imagine what it feels like? Yet how easily frightened we are, we spoon-wiedling lovers of fish. It never fails to astonish the fish kingdom. We, the adventurous, the risk-taking species, eat the flesh of other creatures. Yet we panic when a morsel of meat gets caught in a crack between our teeth. Then we go at it with a toothpick like crazy. Hilarious, really.

If only we humans could be brave, says the fish on my spoon. Brave enough to puncture our gullets and spew blood for the sake of a mere bite of food.

Now just go ahead and chew me up, says the fish in parting. After spitting out my bones, of course.

So saying, it jumps out of the spoon and into my mouth.

Now, why can’t I bring myself to wash that spoon?

Myay Hmone Lwin

edited by Wendy Law-Yone

                                                      Check as you wish, set it free when you done

Priority: 1

A rebel poem was lost while following footprints at the border.

Beware comrades!

Rebel poem is always ready to rebel anything it sees.

Exaggerating with a magnifier. Loud mouth and also fast on foot.

Sneak up on you unexpectedly.

Obvious fact: Attracts red bright color.

Priority: 2

A naughty poem got loose into the city from its cage.

Beware people of metropolitan area!

Naughty poem is filled with lust. A masterpiece at planning for sex.

Hard not to fall into its sweet talk, especially for new generation Myanmar girls.

Obvious fact: Always wet.

 Priority: 3

A modern poem was lost from special restricted area.

Beware people of under and above the ground.

Modern poem tends to be violent.

Hatred toward rich and elite for no reason.  Works in group.

Obvious fact: Always craving for food and liquor.

Priority: 4

The poem inside National Literature Gallows who wants to repay to the parents and the American polarize hamburger hot-dog chocolate poem saying people are being torture and starving.

Those poems,

Oh well…. fuck them.

Myay Hmone Lwin

  

Spare me the Doubt

My hair? No, I’ve never had it cut. Ever. That’s right. Not since I was born.

But wait.  Why do you guys want to know so much about my hair? What’s so peculiar about it anyway? You guys are so weird.

Hair grows and keeps gowing because God meant it to. Why cut it off, I ask you. Is it a crime to let it grow? Does it lead to crime?

Yeah. That’s me. Living in this same room since I was a kid. Not wanting to go anywhere. What for?

There’s a clock in this room, have you noticed? And a window.  Don’t know if it opens. Haven’t tried to in a while. Don’t want to. Why let in the dust?

The clock, though. The clock is really useful. It gives me something to look at. I study the second hand, tick by tick. Sometimes I don’t take my eyes off it until it has gone full circle – once, twice, thrice – around the timepiece. I tell you, it’s so absorbing I hardly have time for anything else.

I am so curious. Curious and envious. When is the second hand going to stop? Does it ever get tired? I stare and stare, envious of the way it inches forward, round and round, an endless revolution.

What am I envious of? You won’t understand. But it’s like this: Second meets Minute oh so many times on its circular path, but Second never even stops to  greet Minute. It just goes its own way. Second is never bothered by the fact that Minute gets to catch its breath and chill. Never bothered that it has to be the faster one always. Never says, Life is so unfair! Second just gets on with it.

Frankly, unlike you, Second has no curiosity about anything or anyone, not even about Minute.

So, yes, I stay in my room because I don’t want to see anyone. But you – you keep wanting, keep trying desperately, to see me.

You ask so many questions. About this and that. About my fifteen-foot long hair.

And you’ll go on making a big deal about it, telling everyone about me, as soon as you leave this room.

You’re all so strange to me. So peculiar. Not that I care. I’d rather watch time, thank you. Watch the endless journey of the second hand around that globe of a clock.

Leave me be, why don’t you? Go do your job. Go look for one if you don’t have one yet. It’s never too late.

Enough now. Really.  Please leave.

Myay Hmone Lwin
Edited by Wendy Law-Yone