Hot Pot Magazine

By Wing Yau

The slavering dog keeps returning
to her bowl for what has long
evaporated. You remember
the taste of victory
on a night like this: the same thirst,
same pulsating certainty,
same fistful of coarse sand
rubbed in your eyes.

In a red, green and blue
phosphorescent hurl,
you spread your natal chart
and begin a bargain with God. The dice,
red and glossy, like the remnant
of a chewed-up heart,
bounces once on its
velvety course.

Hope never barks. Her eyes red with a lover’s
hurt. You open your palms towards the titanium
blackness in the sky; a soft cry in a putrid breath.
The dice rolls off its God-appointed slot.
Hope sits like a good dog does
as she watches you beg
for just one more, one more
chance. She knows she’s all you have.

Wing Yau (she/them) was born in Hong Kong and has lived in the United States and Australia.  Melbourne is the city in which she now lives, works and writes. A Pushcart nominee, Wing’s writing has appeared in Island Magazine, Voice and Verse, Variety Pack, The Suburban Review, and elsewhere.