Two poems

by Rasy Bayu


You Can't Hurry Love — 2016 Remastered — Hello, I Must Be Going!

there is a sixty-four gigabyte micro sd in the cavities of my cellular
and vodafone has ceased to reach this corner of the eastern coast.
not quite the full 1700 kilometers .     this is only south-central.
still sugarcane-less,          sub-tropical
with dropped off       reception zones.
you text when you're driving all the time with the help of
the other network provider. this shouldn't be public
shouldn't be published   she said   love don't come easy
it's  a   game of      give and take          when the
plastic, internal   won't load street view setting
sim card stopping the spotify stream
so we switch
to the micro sd full of torrented dad rock
and groan      no,  you just have to wait
almost the full 1700 kilometers.       been driving for so  long 
just trust in the good time
the mercury is rising  and we're leaving 
a trail of popsockets to melt on the roadside heat 
my phone slips out of my hand
from the sweat droplets i've been collecting       grow impatient for a 
love to call my own 
        “you know,
phil collins didn’t write this right?”


they are called pick up trucks here—not utility
and we sit in the middle because we’re older
gotta make sure the kids go home safe
hybrid station wagon with a closed behind, that tiny sunroof.
low tier international school for the low tier
expats with brown mothers and white-less dads
so if you’re not half white here what are you?
if you’re full blood here what are you
and i see how everybody else prefers
the ones closer to #ffffff-ers
pick them out as little girls
and wait for them to blossom.

we all meet for prayer every afternoon
on the top floor of the main building like
penthouse parties but we praise allah in the midday sun.
with bellies full and listen to the creak of the rusty swing set
they cant afford to buy a new one just yet,
low tier international school for the low tier
immigrant families. low key
lovers under the tamarind tree
and boys that were too cool for me
chased around table arrangements
and spoke languages neither of us
could speak

and so she whispers treachery into my ear
and ducks the imaam’s watch when we
destroy god and colour in the same breath.
the cool boys never wanted me when i
blushed behind their northern skin.
we’re mostly the same kind but he’s white-passing.
and so she whispers treachery into my ear
in the middle of hybrid / pickup / station wagon / utility truck
three times a week after school on the ride home
injects sceneries into my soul
and kissed me without    thinking

imaam takes glances, i get off with earthquakes
in my kneecaps  her icicle fingers lined my back
know she’s back home in west africa
with a husband and a child like her sister.
occasionally dots the message bar with a red flag
and i’ll always be a low tier expat
with a white-less dad


About the author

Rasy Bayu writes but not often enough to call themself a writer but real enough to be here I guess, so almost. They are Jakarta-born, Bangkok-bred, and Brisbane-based. Their work has previously found homes in Pressure Gauge Press and Buah Zine. Find them sprinkled throughout the webs of cyberspace via @r4sc4ls.

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