Our Elsewheres: A Fairy Falls To Earth And Lives Among Humans

The day of my fall, I leaned into a crack

in the sky to study the village I’d chosen

for my home; the lush jungle around it

where I could hide for safety (just in case).

I leaned all the way into the hole I’d made

with a flick of a wrist to part the cloud floor.

What I thought about, as I fell—so fast

and far from home—was how no one

would notice me missing (as glittery

as we appear, no one distinguishes

one fairy from another) and that by falling

there was no coming back from

breaking divine law—how excited I felt

when my feet graced the mud and stone

of ordinary time, and how unbearably alone.

The moon is a charnel house of light;

a skull tossed into a lake of stars—

I’m tired from healing and listening

to the pleas of villagers. I rest alone

in the room I’ve been given. Yesterday

they announced about building a temple

in my honour; a better place to stay

where they can visit and worship me.

The husband is glad for me to go but

his wife weeps quietly to herself beside him.

Outside my window, the underside of

heaven darkens; constellations

hide behind a parchment of clouds.

As I’ve never known sleep, I close my eyes

to dream in perfect wakefulness of

what I left behind: my sister-fairies,

the smiling Empress, a garden in the sky

with shimmering, bosomy peaches.

At the temple where I now reside,

a wooden throne is set up

in the centre of a living hall

with a bed beside it framed by

see-through curtains of scarlet cloth

that waver whenever doors fly open

and the women come for me.

Neglected, beaten up or abandoned

by their husbands, these ladies

visit me in the late hours.

They bow and strip down to nothing

without asking and soon they

come in groups to writhe and whisper

at my feet or on the mattress

as I acquiesce to instructions

to caress with the adjoining of lips

to all their sacred parts.

The village heads stop their wives

from visiting me. Soon they bring torches

to set my temple ablaze. I blow the smoke

right up their nostrils. The fire they flourish

burns them instead, frying them to embers.

Now as ash decorates the air, the village

is ruled by a goddess. It’s my time.

A sash of cloud blows across some stars.

The air goddess with her bag of wind

must be nearby. I hide indoors

from sun and sky. There’s no one

left in the village but me; huts and buildings

collapse on themselves over time.

How long may this holiday last?

Do I move from one hamlet to the next?

The formula only grows old even

as I remain unchanging as loneliness.

An earthquake erupts. Trees get swallowed

and I take to the sky between heaven

and squirming earth below. Buildings pour

up. Vehicles go faster. Construction cranes

swivel and fashion trends evolve.

Time slows again when I come back

down to perch on the roof of a skyscraper

where my temple once stood. I survey

the grounds I once called my home

and wonder if the heavens still hold a place

for me. What would my punishment be

if I appeared before the Jade Emperor?

I decide to stay and figure out

my part in this modern-day play.

Cyril Wong, a leading Singaporean poet, is often described as the country’s first truly confessional voice and is a two-time Singapore Literature Prize winner. His recent collections include Infinity Diary and Beachlight.

(Excerpted with permission from Seagull Books)