SPILLED YOGHURT

An open tub of it, upturned, resting on the floor.
Beyond the edges, past the lip of the container,
white spills out. I have never seen something so pure
like divinity leaking or a usurpation of confinement.

The tub seems as a perverse symbolism
of every man-made hierarchy in existence, of
words that end with -ism and start with an oppressor.
It did not seem right that it could trap

the goodness within and gatekeep it from the world.
Yoghurt, still seeping, reminds me of everything
holy, sinless, until it comes into contact with
stained wood floor and then it is

in need of a confession. I could not understand
how a little dust pollutes purity when it cannot even
be seen. Yet, I knew that the white out of the tub was exposed
to a reality of Godlessness and Icarus-like narratives, and

The white inside is reserved for people who believe.
I realise I am not, cannot, be one of them.
God lies within but I am without, and
I cannot live like this I cannot continue

staring at escaping yoghurt not cleaning it up.
If the yoghurt is purer than the floor
and the floor is purer than me
then the yoghurt must be purer than me.

There is a saying about milk but
nobody told me what to do
in the case of spilled yoghurt.
So
I do the thing I thought I ought to do.
I lift the bell jar
Watch heaven gush out
Sink fingers in white
Scoop
Floor-stained yoghurt
into
My gaping mouth.

---

Xiu Wen, 20, Singapore ✯ TT: @xwzhang_ ✯ www.medium.com/xwzhang_

“Xiu Wen is currently studying English Literature and Philosophy in a university in sunny side Singapore. She loves writing poetry about religion and family with influences from Chinese and Hakka culture. Her little comforts include staying in on a rainy day with a cup of chrysanthemum tea.”