A Tale, by the Dead

By Maung Htike Aung

​Content warning: Torture

​There was, that chair, I remember, splinters, uneven, he was, not able, to stand, or sit straight, unconscious, and tied, a blood-, stained gag, stuck, in his mouth, nerves, heightened, tensed, fragmented, truncheons, deftly, held by, big fat men, commanded, mostly, they swore, swore, swore, jeered, drunk, and what did, his late comrades, think, their poor, old mothers, widows-to-be, or children, or home, at least, he had a home, he thought, or it got, maliciously devoured, by fire, like his comrades’, he, did not know, and those cold, pliers, had him, not to trip down, on the lane, his teeth, one, after one, in front, of him, gone, then kicks, one after, one, in his chest, and last, a bread, they offered, he had eaten, a small piece, of homemade, jaggery, smell, of his wife’s, pubic hair, she was, religious, respectful, royal, and brought it, hidden, when was that, here, he, for days, maybe weeks, and another tooth, taken out, still, stubborn, sane, and cuts, slow, slicing, his head, seemed, heavier, darker, more distant…

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It is Just a Single Room

By ​Maung Htike Aung

​Again. When I took a look at this building, a single room in which I was born, brought up, beseeched to believe in miracles and saw my people die miserably, I smiled. Half of it was cold, the other was warm. 

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The Last Keeper

Maung Htike Aung

it was always her who scared me most when i was little. nights, her dirty self-preserved hands scraped the radiation-burnt skin of my dream and crawled, crawled in me, fading the fairies of filthy wings. i happened to be awake in sleep & was happy to be drawn in by smell of soil, by hairy tendrils, by promising shoots, by the stories of her jams which were untold, unearthed, unexpired. it was so tempting to peek into her garden. wild. free. full of faith—orchestrated by the mighty caws of the crow, the playful plants, dance, dance, the warmth of colors in the backdrop.

she had eyes of the canal. i was taught that word, canal, by the stories passed down through generations. my mother often said, “it was a sacred creature that abandoned us long ago.” but my father in resistance claimed, “it was a mythical thing home to water.” they all but said the same thing: our ancestors were clouded and found her ornaments weird rather than wonders: she was forced to leave. then she left, followed by her garden, her crow, her heirloom, whispering, “more plants, less pain…”

when i woke up, i spoke her tongue and even invented my own chunks, “thou, the untamed beauty of wonder in the wilderness. where are you?” 

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Mud for a Lotus

By ​Maung Htike Aung

February brought a hellhound
hiding in his crotch discreetly.
 
Mothers fussed at a market about
radiant flowers to offer the Buddha.
 
Like making a lace, the Mara nips eaves &
makes himself a crown on a temple shelf.
 
The stains on history’s horoscope
remain filthy even after a wash and rub in tears.
 
In the ant’s astrological forecast
this event is explained in detail.
 
The memories of old mothers that await
their masters in the rooms left untouched.
 
In a common goal to die many a time
Only does substantial shrinkage thrive. 

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​Maung Htike Aung is a poet, literary translator and educator from Mandalay, Myanmar. His poems and translations have appeared in local university magazines, Portside Review, Wasafiri, and Volume Poetry.