Xiaole Zhan
Soap
I daydream my name
over the airport loudspeakers
for the drama of it.
like a stoic kiss-cam,
one-line monochrome header on
newsprint, me! and some
catastrophe broad-
cast to strangers,
some of them beautiful,
imagine! my Tinder
date from three weeks
ago tilting her ears to
the side like a cat, ear-
ring set we bought
together and halved,
cheap, glow-in-the-
dark stars, dangling
as she catches my name
in the wind, like a class-
room note folded into
a paper plane.
the plot thickens.
decades, now, I’ve
been stranded in an
air-bnb in the middle
of nowhere, the storm
outside is louder than my
AAA-battery-powered
vibrator. I’m alone
in a one-bedroom
house in the middle
of the ocean, and
then a prodigal child
storms the aisle
at somebody’s
wedding and
arrives
at my doorstep
in a wooden rowboat.
somewhere
a plane takes off—
an antenna is adjusted—
rainbow static on the
box television set
in a cabin
in the woods
glimmers
of my devastated face
sure as a movie.
I’m flying home.
I say goodbye to
the beautiful strangers
of the summer. My tears
are wet faux jewels—
terrible, glittering, and
meant to be.
Xiaole Zhan is a Chinese-New Zealand poet and composer based in Naarm. Their name in Chinese is 小乐 and means ‘Little Happy’ but can also be read as ‘Little Music’. @xiaole.zhan