Philippine American Writers & Artists

[asking]

there is ghazal swimming inside of her, wanting
to be born. on the matter of foretelling, of
small miracles, cactus flowers in bloom on this
city fire escape, where inside your tongue
touches every inch of her skin, where you lay
your hand on her belly and sleep. here, she
fingers the ornate remains of ancient mosques.
here, some mythic angel will rise from the dust
of ancestors' bones. this is where you shall
worship, at the intersections of distilled
deities and memory's sharp edges. the country is
quite a poetic place; water and rock contain
verse and metaphor, even wild grasses reply in
rhyme. you are not broken. she knows this having
captured a moment of lucidity; summer lightning
bugs, sun’s rays in a jelly jar.

this is not a love poem, but a cove to escape the
flux, however momentary. she is still
a child, confabulating the fantastic; please do
not erode her wonder for the liquid that is your
language. there is thunderstorm in her chest,
wanting to burst through her skin. this is
neither love poem nor plea. this is not river,
nor stone.