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This week, a new poem by Hong Kong-based writer Nicholas Wong.
THE BRITISH AMBASSADOR
I heard that he gave good lectures, that’s why I signed up his class.
I heard that he’s divorced and hid a few she-male lovers in Thailand, Malaysia and
I heard that he only let those transvestites scour his head, touch his hair behind his
neck, then they went into a dark room
in the back lane, where a dove was set free by a mix of moaning languages.
I also heard he attended various parades, with some British acquaintances,
arms over shoulders,
reclaiming a kind of youth that wouldn’t return no matter how loud he screamed,
how far he marched.
I heard he invited a few students home, cooked for them and had a good mentor chat
I heard he paid the tuition for a student, not handsome, but sinewy-lean.
He warned him not to spread the news, but then news found its
Now, in his office, a space mainly a display of dour shelves and insouciant books,
he nears me on his couch,
with a copy of Penguin Henry James in his sad hand.
He looks at me, but he doesn’t blink,
as if to see wings grow on my back, so that we can fly
to his colonial space,
far away from the wise words the master has bequeathed.
NICHOLAS WONG is a gay poet based in Hong Kong. His poetry is forthcoming in Assaracus: Journal of Gay Poetry, Prime Number Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Third Wednesday and the Sentinel Champion Series. He is currently an MFA Candidate at the City University of Hong Kong. Visit him at nicholasybwong.weebly.com.