Gillyweed

Father,
there are holes
in the roof
of our kitchen.

From here I could see
the sunlight.

Later in the afternoon,
as it happens every day,
during these mental monsoon months
  of June and July: 

Our house would turn 
into a mini Ocean Park. 

Puddles will form 
on basins and teacups
settled on ground.
Trickling on warm wooden
walls. This house
would be the house
of garden moss
and ferns. 

Father in a matter of days,
if we don’t fix this we will have:

Gills instead of nose.
Fins for arms and legs.
And scales 
in place of skin.

I’m not saying this is bad:
I’m just saying this 
Is not good either.

Water Cycle (Or How We Didn’t Stay)

“And rain remembers nothing, not even how it became itself.”

-Las Ruinas del Corazon by Eric Gamalinda

We are droplets of rain,
you and I,
falling on the flooded streets
of España, Sampaloc, 
Manila. One 

With the south west monsoon.
Tailgating the bravado of heaving 
heavy hearted 
Habagat. 

We float along the canals.
Rushing towards the cusp
where air and drainage meet.

Soon, when the rain stops falling
we will find ourselves floating
in the sewers along 

with other pieces of left over.
But to this, we will not feel sad:
We are droplets of rain,
you and I, 
and we are happy with everything
we touch, for alas we experience

to be one 

with everything we touch.
Soon, 
we’ll be one with the air
as the setting sun 
evaporates us. And this time,
perhaps 
maybe this time, 

we will re-member. ()

Cryogenic

Every time I give you flowers,
by all means:
   put them in the freezer.
For this is how
we preserve our love.

My mother told me this trick:
The secret to preservation
is to prevent 
the growth of bacteria.

And bacteria as she said:
   they multiply in heat

So perhaps maybe the act
of freezing the flowers I give
will serve as a bandage solution 
to the chronic convulsing course 
of conserving cancerous 
nature.

My dear, this is 
the cryogenic approach:

the preservation 
of the present in hope
that the present 

preserves our future.

Travel With Me

Let us go
somewhere far
to a place,
perhaps farther,
than both of us
have travelled.
Where both of us
know no one and
no one knows
the both of us.

    What are we riding?
    Are we riding?

Let’s ride.

I’ve heard this from dear Edward:
There’s a good Universe
next door.
There we shall go
for he advised me to go.

Come hold my hand
and come
to my hand.
We will go
somewhere far,
to a place,
perhaps farther,
than both of us
have travelled.

    When are we leaving?
    Are we leaving? 

Let’s leave.

Tell me:

At what point
does the water
stop seeping
in a cupped hand?

  The seashells
  stop whispering
  the tale
  of Alunsina?

And the ocean
stop pushing and pulling
    itself to the shore, 

like the hands of a man
         reluctant to stay and
         let go?

Because then,
and only then,

         do I dare 
         let go. 

(for the future)

Sign Language

There’s something
about the way 
you flicker your fingers

in place of the words
that cannot hang 
from your lips.

   You have eyes that talk
   in themselves,
   (more sincere than
       most people)

a pair of hands 
that manipulate 

syntax and 
   semantics

into meaningful motion.

    So this is how it looks like:
    A world of interwoven warmth.

I think I like this better

than the world of voices 
   that speak without really speaking.

Safety Measure

We will disarm each other,
just like how they do in airports,
in case in our pockets
we carry hi-caliber guns

    of sadness past and present,
    sadness yet to come.

This is not 
an allusion to Dickens,
the things we’ll do to each other,
nor political bias
against the carrying of firearms,

   just 
   a committed consensual
   contra 
   contre-coup

   
       to make each other happy.