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Month: April, 2013

I Once Wrote A Poem About Hearts And Fishes

The heart only remembers what it felt.
So by that logic, it can only remember
What has touched it. A poem,
For example, to which this was fashioned after
Once made my heart feel like a fish taken
Out of the water, then dropped back
Into the fishbowl after some time, only grateful
That it can breathe again, that breathing
Becomes not just a routine, but
A sign that one is alive, unmindful
For once, of the fact that it is trapped
In a prison of glass. I once tried
Writing a poem for you, just to make you feel
Like I did: a fish, the bowl, make you feel air,
Water. But I am afraid of dipping my hands
Into that bowl and taking you out
Of the waters. I was going to show it to you
That night exactly a year ago when we kissed
Inside my car, when the sheet felt like
A thin glass wall, cold and fragile between our skins,
But you opened the car window gasping for air.
The heart only remembers what it felt.
So by that logic, it also remembers
Not only the things that touched it, but also
The things it has touched: the sheets and never your skin,
Your lips but never your heart,
The outer surface of the bowl and never the water inside.


How About This Armageddon, Then?

They say we cannot choose where we come from, but we can choose where to go. The setting: the dinner table in your apartment, smoke from your cigarette lingering in the air like an aftermath. Weapons of mass destruction at our reach — a fork, a spoon, a Bible, the ashtray, the newspaper this morning reporting the death of a husband and wife, what is left of the chicken you ate resting on a plate, all of them casualties of this silent war. Never mind the mountains of papers and photographs stacked on the table, nor the static in the television. We cannot go back to where we were. I am offering you a choice. How about a fire? Let us burn what we have, papers and bones, our bodies included. I will be the ashes in your clothes, and you the smoke in my lungs. We cannot choose where to come from. But now, we could go.

What I Know About the Flat Earth Theory

The end must signify a point
of no return: where land recedes
and fades into sand, sand
into sea. Where does the sea
end? Let us find out.
Wonder with me, to where
the ocean bleeds its waters
to newborn stars. Or perhaps there
a mountain range lies. The earth
can only take so much. Call it
finitude. What we have
must end somewhere. Soon
we will decide to turn
our backs away from
each other, count to ten,
and with eyes closed, walk
until our feet bleed so much
we cannot feel anymore.
In the end, we discover. Speculations
fade into knowledge. Where
does knowledge end? I can only
wonder what happens
after the great divide.
Where the mouth fades
into words, but no ears
await, this we call finitude.
The body can only take
so much. We can bleed
until we cannot. You and I fade
into us. A mountain range. An ocean.
A point of no return.


We got to the shore before dawn
finally breaks the deep blue shell

we call sky, spilling light like breaking
the yolk we call sun. Yellow stains

the tablecloth, pocked with grains
and grains of stars we can only consume

from afar through the eyes that hunger
for something more, a thirst not even

the ocean against the skin can quench.
And we felt it: beneath the granulated sand

the earth grumbles, in need for lovers
to feed it words. We cannot comply

though we slice across its crust. We are only
speculators, spectators. We also hunger:

for words, for love. We are only human.


First line from Mikael de Lara Co’s Orca
Part of NaPoWriMo 2013, and a project I am doing along with a couple of friends.