Imagining Crumbs
for Michael in Phoenix
I may never see that winter landscape
you once spoke of. Towering
Sonora cacti, arms propping up
hostile sky, laden by a cold,
alien whiteness. A mountain drive
Descending to a valley
where life sprawls at the edges
of a vast desert. Such fragile
human settlements, forgetting heat
bends more than light.
You are moving again, my friend.
In an email I jokingly offer to carry
your toaster, place it on the counter
of a kitchen that is smaller
than what your kids are used to.
The banks cannot take possession
of this imagined moment: I am there
with you, stepping out your door
clutching that toaster
in my clumsy arms.
I walk to your pickup truck.
Crumbs fall from the gaps
under your toaster, a trail
barely visible. The wind
scatters them but we know
They will land somewhere,
settle.
-o-
Threats and Deeds
———- I love America
———- Her secret’s safe with me
———- I know her wicked ways
———- The parts you never see
———- –“Miss America” by David Byrne from Feelings
You are everywhere. Not by choice
of those who are
forced to stare
at your long arms,
or are they tentacles?
Hard to see
when, just as we think
we can sense your kindness,
one of us gets whipped
to submission.
Sat on.
Barbed Barbie
on missile point
heels,
if anyone says
Ouch
We get a taste of your beauty
and animosity.
-o-
This poem is included in the collection Alien to Any Skin, UST Publishing House, Manila 2011.
What You Have Taken
———- “It’s tricky when
———- you feel someone
———- has done
———- something on your behalf”
———- – “Desired Constellation” by Bjork from Medulla
Six in the morning, Yogyakarta.
No semblance of last night’s
fiery performance staged
at an ancient temple
for our paying pleasure.
I roam alone with a borrowed camera
thinking of taking
random shots.
Rickshaws of faded red
line the edges
of the road, now just waking.
The feet of a curled up rickshaw driver stick out
of the passenger’s seat.
His toes so round, so still.
Dirt smoothed into the skin
of his soles.
An umbrella over the rest of him
for when the sun grows
unbearable.
I snap. Without asking permission,
I take that photograph.
Then I turn around and there’s an old man
smiling. A little boy is strapped
to his back with a red blanket.
The boy doesn’t smile. He looks at me
straight in the eye.
I have the same colour skin, but he knows
I am not from here.
The words I mutter sound distantly similar
to the words they know. So I gesture,
with the camera, with a finger, a request.
And he nods. Gives an even wider smile.
The boy remains still,
his feet dangling on the sides of the old man
as I take my time
focusing.
Years later I have these photos.
One like of someone dead,
faceless, unknown.
The other of two different generations.
One who must have wailed to witness
the murders of those he knew or loved
while the rest of the world slept.
And that staring child.
-o-
This poem is included in the collection Alien to Any Skin, UST Publishing House, Manila 2011.
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