GILBERT KOH

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WE WERE TALKING POETRY AT A COFFEE CAFÉ

And then you took out this poem
You'd lately written. Work in progress, you said.
But even as I ran my eyes over its skeleton
I felt the bright red pain of it, the sense of loss
Of which it tried to speak.

This half-shadow lurking in your eyes,
Like a memory. How much of this was truth,
How much only fiction? I did not ask the question.
I feared the answer would be a wound too deep
For me to even try to help you heal.

So we discussed the technicals only. The choice
Of a word, the colour of a metaphor. Where to break
A line. Sipping bitter expressos, testing resonances,
We rearranged the bones of your language,
Studiously avoided its weeping flesh.