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.


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