3 poems by Kristine Ong Muslim

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Prufrock's Profession


And I have seen their breasts already, seen them all:
Silicon-filled to grafted-tissue-filled;
The only difference is
How much they have been billed.
Do I dare
Make a sudden leap
And ask for a money-back guarantee?

I have measured out my life with degrees
Of plumpness, softness, and medical jargons
To make these starlets, these wrenches,
These future calendar girls
Be etherized upon my stainless-steel table.

In the lounge, my waiting clients presume
What shape their inflated breasts will assume.

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Prufrock's Fridge


In the chiller, the vegetables rise and shine,
Delectably swishing, "Be mine, be mine."

In the freezer,
The microwaveables, the chicken breasts and drumsticks
Are cropped with all the frozen marinades I must not
mix.

There will be time to throw the moldy casseroles
And leftovers away, time for all the indecisions
Before the Plagues will grow out of the them.
I have spilled the marmalade on the surface
Of a pie. I have tried to change my ways
And clean out my fridge. But the smears
Of butter snicker; the cake icing shimmers.
And in this moment of crisis, I must not fast.

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Prufrock's Closet


Nestled amongst the polka-dotted underwear
Are my jeweled boxers and a lucky charm
That will keep my balls away from harm.
There will be time, there will be time
For indecisions, revelations, calculations
Before the unfolding of my closet-skeletons.

On the racks, my shoes are buffed black
Or I will definitely get my money back.

The row of Armani suits that cost a German car
The row of Armani suits that will take me far
As to lead girls to an overwhelming question:
"Do I dare stroke Prufrock's peach, pinch his cheek,
and will I still inherit the earth if I am meek?"

In the drawers, my socks are carefully aligned,
folded, sorted
According to the visible spectrum frequencies, from
violet to red.

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