Christine Ong Muslim
Like father, like son. I dig holes for a living,
scour the narrowest of passageways, the foggiest
of glass. Down here, I am bedrock; I shift
to the rhythm of time. The hills seem bigger
from here. I imagine the ends of electric poles piercing
the ground like splinters in the darkness, straight to my heart.
For years, this town has become an exhaust pipe;
it gets dirtier no matter which way I come in or out.