June 2021

A Boy, Inarticulate

When Jeremy’s godmother and god brother arrived at the Rosaleses’ house on an unbearable summer afternoon in April, it was not only to say hi.

It was summer break, and Jeremy was up on a high branch of the mango tree in their backyard. He liked climbing there because of the cooler, fresher air. When the tricycle stopped in front of his house, he watched as a middle-aged woman stepped out of the sidecar, followed by a tall young man. He heard the guy’s voice first before seeing his face, which was partially hidden by a cap. “It’s hot here, Ma,” he complained, then unfastened the top two buttons of his polo. His mother nodded in agreement and asked him to take the valise down from the tricycle’s burning roof.

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To Leonard Matlovich

Those cartridges that are empty
are golden like the sunlight
and the highlights of his hair.
He loved

that gold like he loved the petals
of the flowering daffodils gleaming
in the dawn with auric splendor.
The bullets

are scattered like seeds of loss,
two cold bodies of men, oblivious
to the blood that seeps
over the ground

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Dead Chicken

I murmur an apology to the skull in my hand, 
no lighter than a handful of pesos.
The curve of its beak winds into a low note,
a soulful whistle that carries me to a graveyard 
where I writhe under the soil. 
Schoolboys place me on the end of a twig,
confines me in a box with a spider.
I am no lighter than an eyelash on the cheek
of a wailing daughter, dead mother, dead father
dead everyone, this is a festival of carcasses
Where in the sky forms a beak of its own,
it raises its head to hammer its mouth back down.
Poisonous rainwater and whipping wind,
I think I hear an apology in its zapping too
It says, carry me to Eden on a Sunday evening
where the moths bounce around a dimly lit bulb
in the backyard of your childhood home.
Dogs’ full bellies exposed and frogs dancing
a cotillion of lucky escapes.
At this point I think of my own skull
crushed or ground or fed to a salivating mouth
Would I concern myself then, of forgiveness?
My eyes a glassy mush, a skull void of purpose
What is there to shield against once the head rolls away? 
The blades of grass open a mouth,
always a form of hunger to be satiated
My body becomes host today, and my head, 
a blasphemy of some verse in a holy book 
My murder is nothing but a color,
easily dismissed as a broken crayon. 
Nothing but the earth mourns me and 
I find myself rolling off to sleep, my mind in sepia 
I think about all the dead chickens
and that I am a tick and a tock away
from having my own head crushed. 

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