by Ryan Wong
The fireworks are bursting sunflowers, showering the town
in seeds of gold, loud and beautiful in their hope —
all the things I cannot be.
Every summer’s end is the same.
Sizzling barbeques, wailing car alarms, drunken laughter.
And if I press my fingers to the glass I can pretend,
even if for a selfish moment,
that the joy of liberation was one I shared in.
Because make-believing is all I know, all I can do.
In this city in this state in this country,
anything more is a punchline to laugh at
and a death sentence when they realise you’re serious.
Such is Merdeka for the other:
gazing wistfully out of windows,
letting our imaginations run, free but never too far,
lest we lose ourselves to foolish hope.