Our daughters will never be free.

Hello everyone. I am dying quite slowly at work, which is not anyone's fault but mine. (I'm quite possibly the worst employee ever, you guys, I do work very slowly until my supervisor goes, "Uh, I actually need this pretty soon" and then I work furiously fast and complete what I need to do and then slip into a fugue state again. Do not be like me.)

But have a poem. It is "National" Poetry Month, is it not?

Landing

What death may be: a slow, close-to-weightless
tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning
slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low
growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to
land, to devour the space between its
falling body and the ground, followed by
the slow lick of its wheels against the runway’s
belly: pressing down, then skating forward,
only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,
and the plane makes a sound
like the hugest sigh of relief.

( The seat belt sign blinks off for the final time. )

Cyril Wong